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Entry tags:
KHR Rarepair Week - Rain - Reincarnation AU
The first time they meet, it's when he is a scrappy thing still building the foundations of the Vongola, and the other man is some acquaintance of Daemon's. It's hard to say how they met, because Daemon is rarely honest about things save how much he loves his wife, and this other man is a rather taciturn sort. Words, let alone honesty, come only with some reluctance.
But he is a clever sort of man, the kind who knows how to best stay in the shadows and collect all sorts of information simply like that rather than with tricks or illusions, and there is a value in that sort of thing. He makes a fine spy; even his cousin Ricardo agrees that he's found some helpful people for his Varia through him. "It's hardly anything special," Daemon chuckles when Giotto brings it up one day. "There are always those sorts of people around, aren't there? I'm sure you've met them before, even if you haven't paid them any mind- ah, not that it's a bad thing if you did, before becoming such a man of importance. But quiet spokes on a wheel, just turning throughout the day.... No one pays such things any mind, do they? No matter what ends up said."
And maybe that's true. Maybe. Still, Giotto can't help but be curious about that quiet man, who glares at things before they have a chance to approach him. Cold and distant, maybe, but if Giotto let that stop him, he wouldn't have half the friends he has right now.
"You're so noisy," the man grumbles after a few repeated attempts of Giotto to get nearer to him. Today, such an encounter takes place deep within the old castle that they've taken up as their base - some old thing from a war long before their time that was abandoned for some of the damage done. Such cheapskates nobles can be it's nothing that a little bit of hard work can't fix. "Don't you have some.... giant empire to build or something?"
"Do I look like the kind of guy trying to make a fairy tale come to life?" Giotto laughs, settling down on a stack of.... something? They're all sacks, and they feel soft enough, so he doesn't think too hard on it. "I'm just trying to make the people here feel a little bit safer, instead of being left abandoned and picked off."
There's that glare again, where the man sits at his table some distance away, hunched over papers and candlelight. "You sound too good to be true, but I guess people don't think about that..."
What a pessimist. Then again, Daemon seems more comfortable with people like that, Giotto knows. Maybe for someone who deals so much in dreams and fantasies, it's nice to have someone a little more... down to earth? Or pessimistic, as some other people would call it. "You just say that because you don't really know me yet," Giotto says, with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not all that impressive past that."
Still the man glares at him. "From what I've heard, don't you have some weird special power...?"
"Would you believe me if I said that a beautiful woman in white told me that all people technically have this power inside of them, but it never comes out unless you're willing to act like you'll die at any minute?"
That glare only seems to get more intense. "....No. I wouldn't. Is this about the woman in charge of the Giglio Nero family, or whatever it's called....?"
"That's right. They've been willing to help us out passing through their forests. They seem nice." That isn't all there is to it, of course, far from it, and Giotto's finger grinds against the smooth metal of his ring. The ring that she gave to him, along with all of its kin. Well, it's probably for the best if not as many people know about all of those fine details. "Anyway, you don't have to glare at me so much, you know. If I'm really bothering all this studying that you're doing, you can just tell me, and I'll go."
"I'm not glaring."
Giotto blinks. "What?"
Sighing, and apparently deciding that he's not going to get any work done, the man leans back. "I'm not glaring. I'm trying to see you. You're too far away, and this light..."
Oh. Oh! Giotto immediately gets up off of the pile of sacks, trotting over to stand more fully in the light. "Well! You should have just said that earlier. I always wondered about that, but, ha ha, that makes everything make much more sense! And here I thought that you just didn't like a lot of people."
"I don't," he says bluntly, and Giotto can't help the wheezed out laugh he makes.
Now he knows a little more about him, at the very least - that he can't see as well as some other people, and that he's still blunt and distant even without taking that into consideration. Giotto thinks he likes him just for that, honestly. There's really something refreshing to someone like that. Knuckle is the same way.
"I guess maybe I should work on changing that," he says. "Although that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to talk to you. Hey, don't make that face at me! I have to keep talking to you, or else I'd just sink back to zero, now, wouldn't I?"
For all that he is a bit of a loner, sticking to Daemon or his foraging in the forest, he's not a bad guy, once you get to know him. And Giotto likes listening to him, when he has a moment to spare past all the hustle and bustle that is this active war against an unjust system. There's a kind of peace in it: the scratching of a quill, the crackle of candlelight, that dull and tired voice that responds to him ever so patiently.
His friends who make up his guardians, Shimon, and his cousin - they're all good people too, of course. They do so much for him, have stuck through him through such a tumultuous time as things keep getting bigger and bigger. But it's different, somehow, and Giotto can't quite explain why.
He can only say that he finds a sort of peace in it, even as it all continues to grow and grow, a wave which only picks up all the more power and force.
And it's the nature of waves to take things, eventually. Inevitably.
"The coffin makers never stop these days," Knuckles says quietly, the radiance of his flame and his demeanor dimmed in the somberness of the chapel. "We might run out of trees long before we run out of graves, I think. But I'm glad that you spared a second for even some of the funerals, Gio. I know it's not been easy, to find even a second to breathe, but... "
"I know," Giotto says, staring down dully at the box. "But, with everything he heard for us, and which he passed along... I couldn't not come. Especially since he was acting as a spy for our purposes.... and that was how he got caught out." His fingers dip into the pocket of his coat, rubbing at the metal frames which rest within.
When he came back, Giotto had hoped... to give him a pair of spectacles, so that he could glare with a little more purpose.
"I guess I won't be able to give you the finished thing... Cipriano."
Her father says that, these days, all the children at the school where most Families tend to send their children aren't worth half the spit that would come out of his mouth. And if she's honest, a lot of spit tends to come out of his mouth, although that really isn't something that can be helped after he took that attack into his jaw way back when she was just a little girl. Then there's his age...
But he's still managed to survive well enough, after all this time in one of the most dangerous careers in the entire world, so that's something. Daniella supposes she should be proud of that. It means she still has a father, even as she goes to a school he personally selected after what she knows was no small amount of time.
It's a tough thing, choosing a "safe" school for a mafia heiress.
But it's a plain enough little school that doesn't seem to stand out too much, there in the Italian countryside, with various other normal people who aren't involved in the criminal underworld also attending. It's just, of course, that some of the classes are a little rigorous, or a little odd, and the physical education classes are divided in such a way... that all of them future mafiosi take it together, and it tends to happen in the gym, or deep in the country side, away from any prying eyes.
It's difficult work, she knows, but there's something sort of warm in her heart that her father went to such effort to help a thing like this happen.
And she likes it. She likes talking with the various students around that know of a life outside of the criminal, students who talk about their mother's job or their father's health or the stray dog that they're taking in. This, she thinks, must have been the kind of life that Vongola Primo must have lived way back in the old days when the Vongola was first getting its legs underneath it: a life surrounded by all of the common people that he sought to protect and friends who came from all walks of life, even completely distant lands.
That's the kind of school life she'll endeavor to have, she decides.
And that means making an effort to know everyone in the school, knowing all the details that are there. It's not that she means to put herself at the very top of the ladder, really. It's just something that happens.
"Because you're too bold," one of her father's men tells her, amused, on the way back from the school, to the car that will take her down all the winding streets and back to safety. "Most other girls are a little more demure, you know. But that's probably all our fault, I think."
Danielle scoffs, and shakes her head, but she miles a little, too, because there's no denying the truth there. What kind of mafioso is demure? Her father has no sons, had no luck with it before her mother got gunned down, and he's not seemed interested in another woman, either. So she has always known it would be her that would one day stride forward, and slide the Vongola ring onto her fingers.
And so she is bold. She strides forward with no hesitation, talks with people confidently, shoots down any naysayers as though she held a rifle in her hands. People either like that, or they don't, but, either way, it seems to draw attention to her.
At least, it draws most attention to her. It is one day, before the class can start, that she looks over and realizes that there is one boy in the class who she does not know as well as all the others. A quiet sort, even more quiet than any of the others, and who never looks twice at all the hubbub in class. He has dark hair, and pale gray eyes that are focused outwards towards the shining sun and green grass.
Not unusual, honestly. All of them long to go outside, where there's less classwork to do, and the drone of their teachers could be replaced by the trill of birds. But, in some ways, he seems to be looking even long beyond that.
What's his name? She has to wonder about it.
So, when the school bell rings, and they're all encouraged to go take their lunches and eat, she waves her friends on ahead and goes right over to the other boy. "Hello," she says, loud enough that she knows she's been heard. Still, the boy almost seems to be trying to ignore her to some degree, not making eye contact. "I'm Daniella. We haven't had a chance to meet yet, have we?"
His shoulders hunch up. The antisocial sort, is he? "I think... we've had plenty of chances to meet," he says, words so achingly slow that she almost can't believe they're Italian. "But you have plenty of people to occupy yourself with."
"Maybe so." She shrugs, sharp and careless. "But I wanted to know a little more about you. What's your name, then? Come on, now, I already gave you mine. There's no need to be shy about it. What's the problem?"
What a sigh he makes. Now that she thinks about it, she doesn't think she's ever seen him interact with anyone else in the school, and he doesn't seem to be related to any of the families who work for the Vongola. Just an average boy attending what he thinks to be an average school. She could have swore she's seen him interact with someone, but who? "If I tell you it is Concetto, will that be enough...?"
"It will be enough of an introduction," she scoffs. "But come on now, why don't you eat with other people? You always squirrel away to who knows where."
"You're so bossy. Did you ever consider that maybe I don't like all that noise...?"
A quiet type who prefers quiet surroundings. Hm. Well, it isn't as though she can't understand that. During attacks, raids, so many things that happen so regularly even in times of peace, she has always thought that there was something to quiet. The quiet of waiting, where the heartbeat is the loudest thing of all. The quiet of the aftermath, where you can only hear the breath flowing through your lungs.
The quiet of just knowing that you don't have to worry about anything, at least not right now. Not right now.
"Then I won't be noisy-" He finally looks at her from the side of his gaze, just pass the lenses of his glasses. "Come on, let's go. You're reading that book, aren't you? Tell me what it is about."
"You won't be noisy... So instead you'll have me be noisy instead?" But for all the way that he sighs and his shoulders stay hunched up clear to his ears, he still goes along with it and leads her to a quiet little cluster of trees that are far away from all the most popular sunny spots where their fellow classmates sunbathe and chatter. When he splays open the book's contents, it reveals all sorts of pictures and diagrams of plants. Some she knows, others she never knew grew in Italy.
Daniella knows for a fact that he's just indulging her in hopes that she'll find him boring, and decide this is a one time affair afterwards. The joke, of course, is firmly on him.
People who pursue knowledge like that are some of the most interesting and valuable friends that one can make.
Of course, a good leader has to know when to push and when to pull back. Her father has told her this many times before. Danielle has to admit that she doesn't always listen, with it being against everything that she is, but it is advice she tries to remember, when the stakes are low, and her emotions do not burn so brightly as to blind her gaze from sensible courses of action.
So she tries not to bother him... too much, that reluctant Concetto who looks out past Italy and who keeps his nose in books and his head in the shade. There are plenty of other people she has to talk with too, people who want to gush or complain or just be around her. It'd be rude, to ignore so many people. And she likes them, too, so of course she wants to be with them as well. It's like eating a meal - you need all sorts of food to be happy and content.
But that includes him, too, whether he likes it or not.
It's just meant to be a little thing on the side, really. A person she exchanges a greeting to in the morning before the classes start, a person she goes to bother during lunch as she learns more and more about the kinds of plants which thrive in Italy. "We really do live on fertile soil," she says in admiration, when he introduces her one day to a book all about the different kind of crops that thrive on their land. There are many things to be proud of, when it comes to what her Italy can produce. She loves it. "Why do you learn so much about all of this anyway? Are you a farmer's son?"
"My aunt alleges that I am dead weight," he says flatly, and her heart stops, for a moment. "I'm into these sorts of things.... because I am into them. Just or that, and nothing else." But he sighs again, nudging those glasses of his up his nose and leaning back until his head hits against the tree they're sitting under. "So. Should I now ask if you are going to be a farmer's daughter, then...?"
Daniella laughs at him. "What, do you think I am the kind of person who would be a farmer's daughter?" She has plenty of respect for the food that gets put on her table, sure, but she just can't imagine herself in that kind of lifestyle even without-
"I don't know. Maybe the whole mafia thing is getting boring... or something."
She's the one who goes quiet, this time. Quiet and sharp, thinking of the knife that her father has made sure she always carries with her, just in case. Always just in case. "What makes you think about the mafia, then?" she asks at last, even though Concetto is already yawning as though he hasn't said one of the most alarming things in the world. "You getting shaken down?"
Because if he is - that's an entirely different discussion. She knows that. That he could be an enemy is far more concerning, and worryingly likely.
Not that Concetto seems to have a single damned care in the world, for how he just goes back to reading his book with those droopy eyes of those which say he could fall asleep at any second. "As though there's anything in my pockets you could shake out..." She has noticed he's pretty skinny, although Daniella always thought that was in proportion to the growth spurt he seems to hit every other day. She knows he wasn't that tall when she first saw him in class. "Anyway. If you're asking how I know.... I mean. I've seen people pick you up. The clothes are nice. The car's nice even if it doesn't stand out. There aren't a lot of people who fit that bill.... y'know?"
So he's just observant. Daniella frowns, thinking back and how she thought they were all so careful about it. Even the clothes were something that could be spotted, is that it? It's something that she'll have to make sure everyone else knows, the second that she gets back.
But.... That seems to be something she thinks they could possibly wait until the afternoon to deal with. If Concetto knew from a long time ago, as she suspects, but nothing has happened, then she thinks nothing will happen. She can accept it, in theory, but it's just - "Why are you so calm about it, then?" she asks. "If you know my family is mafia."
Concetto doesn't often look at her straight on. His gaze doesn't focus on people like that, instead reserved for things outside the classroom window, and all the information which lays within his books. But he looks at her now, those pale eyes of his so sharp. Are they really gray, or some sort of other color? It's hard for her to tell. "I mean, if you are mafia, then it is not as though I can do anything about it," he points out and it almost sounds reasonable when he says it like that. "Who would I tell, anyway...? Honestly.... if the local police aren't in your pocket already... They might be more useless."
Probably, that shouldn't make her laugh as hard as it does, hard enough that it takes all the air out of her in one hard rush. She laughs anyway. "I am glad that you have such faith in us, then!" she says, and elbows him in the side. He wobbles, like a willow tree in a storm. "But what tightly sealed lips you have! You know, I could use a guy like you."
The look on Concetto's face is hilarious, in some ways, and worrying in others. "Seriously....?"
There are not many people here who she can be so honest with, honestly. The people who live in the world above, a world that does not have to think of ways to make it past borders and smuggle things underneath the noses of cops, they shouldn't be dragged so carelessly into such a life. It's a dangerous one. One that Daniella is proud to be a part of, but which she would never force anyone into, with all the dangers it holds. And for those who are a part of her Vongola? None of them seem to be on the right level, who can still look at her and answer things honestly, who will not think of her as a mafia heiress they will have to obey in the future so they obey her now.
Concetto had been fine as a friend in the former category. But maybe, with that line blurred, a hole made, he might-
"I would have to do so much work being in the mafia," Concetto sighs, head hitting the tree again, and she laughs, and laughs.
When she's finally managed to recover swiping at the tears to her eyes, Daniella grins cockily. "You know, there's more to do in the mafia than just running around with a gun," she teases him. "Take care of the gardens for us. You just have to act as though you don't see a single thing that goes on, but I don't think that'd be a problem with you. After all, you seem determined to not even look inside our own classroom!"
"I can hear things just fine, you know..."
Probably, he thinks she's just joking, messing around with him, things like that. But as the days and weeks go by, as the seasons start to change hands, she rather thinks she's serious about it all. She thinks that she'd like it, having someone on the ground level who could tell her things so honestly and bluntly, without even looking at her to see her reactions. It's... comforting, she thinks.
And besides, Concetto makes her laugh, although she hardly thinks that's his intention. He just exists plainly as he is, like bramble that doesn't even bother to sprout beautiful flowers to hide all the thorns.
It is for two years that they manage to make through that little school, before it all comes tumbling down.
The attack hits sudden. One day, they are all sitting there in the classroom, not thinking about a single thing at all besides the drone of their teacher's voice, and the scratch of chalk on the board. Daniella likes sitting right there in the middle of it all. She likes how it is to be in the thick of things, how it is to be surrounded by so many people. It is a life that she thrives in. A sky cannot be empty. Concetto, as always, takes whatever window seat that he can get, and never looks at a single one of them.
But there is yelling, suddenly, in the halls. Pounding footsteps. Over from the corner of her eye, Daniella can see Concetto rising from his spot, hands flat against the desk.
It all happens at once. Daniella presses her hands to the desk, too.
Her legs do not have a chance to straighten out from underneath her before an explosion suddenly takes out the entire wall over by the windows.
Daniella gasps, ragged, hard, like there's glass shards in her throat, and she's on her back. When did she get on her back? It doesn't matter. She gets onto her feet, scrambles, doesn't care about the desk that is shattered beneath her, around her. Her ears are ringing. Ringing and ringing and there's everyone yelling, screams, cries. Her father's men are reacting as fast as they can, diving in to grab whoever they can without seeing who it is that they're grabbing, exactly. The dust makes it hard.
But what does she care of dust? Daniella staggers forward, hand automatically tugging at her shirt until it's over her nose. She can just barely see past it all, see that there's barely a wall there standing. That there's no glass at all, all of it scattered everywhere.
Blood drips down her thigh. When was she cut?
Later. Later. Figures lay scattered there against the floor, underneath pieces of wood and plaster, groaning, sobbing. The details are impossible to make out, like this, and she decides the details, then, don't matter. All she does is tug her tie loose, pull her hair back, and get to work. Yells at those who come to help her, demanding they help, too.
Even for how much she's memorized his seating habits, Concetto is still the fourth person that she finds amidst the dust. By then, the ringing in her ears has finally ceased, letting her hear the sounds of gunfire in the distance, clashing, yelling, insults. All of that she ignores, crouching down to shove rubble away and pull him up. "Shit - Concetto!"
There is no describing what has happened to his face - his eyes. Always looking out the window, and that turned out for the worst. "I can't actually feel it," he says, but his voice trembles, just a bit, blood spitting out with his words from where it's caught his lips on the drip down. "Hey. Daniella. I can't...."
An injury like this... It's not something that can be taken care of so easily. It's not something she can help him with, not now. So, gritting her teeth, Daniella tears off her little vest. "You'll make it through, and that's what matters," she says, able to feel dirt with every word from where it coats her teeth. The vest does not make a perfect thing to cover his face, staunch the blood, but it will have to do for now. Just for now, and she'll help him get better when they're out of this. "Come on. I'm going to pick you up. We're going, alright? We're going."
Dust kicks up around their feet as she hauls him over her shoulder. There's still her father's men - thank the god damn saints, there are her father's men, and they grab at her and Concetto both, hustle them through the various hallways where everyone is crowded through. There's no time to get an idea of what is going on. There's no time.
There's no time.
There's only them, the entire student body and the scant few teachers who weren't in on the whole scheme, being lead out through the back, out towards the little forested area that was near the school. Daniella spares only one glance over here shoulder to see the shootout taking place. To see that it is other mafiosi, and a couple of people in entirely foreign uniforms, who are shooting at the school.
There's no describing the words which she thinks, and which just barely manage to not leave her mouth. But she knows she will think them far later into the night, think them when she describes this mess to her Family, her father.
"Will you be alright, Concetto?" she asks, when they've all finally made it at least a little bit into the depths, when the sound of gunfire isn't so loud. Just still too close for comfort. "I want to see if I can get us a car."
They've settled down, since then, so many teenagers crouched down in the dirt. So many teenagers crying, or pale, or holding onto each other. The teachers, the normal ones, don't seem to be doing much better. But whether it's because of the adrenaline rush, or his personality, or something else entirely, Concetto still remains calm. Blood still follows the curve of his jaw, and hits the grass. "A car... in that kind of mayhem," he says, voice slow in a way that seems off from the normal. "I think there's something wrong with you... Daniella. But it's not like I could ever stop you from doing something before..."
She smiles a little bit. Laughs, just so that he can hear it, although she's not sure how well she fakes it. "No, you haven't. So just sit tight, and stay safe, alright?" It's not nearly far away enough from all the fighting to be truly safe, but... It's fine. She'll make it fine. She just has to hijack a car, pile people in, and get them the hell out of here.
One day, she's going to be the head of the Vongola. She can do that much.
Except, she never manages to find out if she can do that much, if she can do the simple task of stealing a car. She's managed to run for maybe three minutes, leaping over shrubs and ducking underneath branches, when a scream pierces up into the air. There's no hesitation for her, not a one, in turning around, in rushing over, but -
But she's too late. She runs to the sight of people splayed across the ground, the remainder trying to scramble back, the enemy there-
Daniella has never fought in a true battle. Two young for it, and she can't lie and say that people weren't thinking about her gender when they made excuses for putting such things off. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
She sees dark hair, splayed out against the ground, blood soaking into her school vest, and something burns white hot in her veins, behind her eyes, and she feels on fire. She's fire. She's grabbing the wrist of the man standing too close and breaking it with a twist, stealing the crossbow from his fingers, and firing.
Later, when the smoke has cleared, the enemies have been dispatched, and assassins are being sent out for the Families responsible for trying to sell them out to some foreign political bastards, she learns all the details. Hears about it all right there next to her father, still holding the crossbow she stole in one hand. None of it changes what happened, can make things right... but it's not for those things that she listens in, eyes burning still.
Everything that happened will not be things she allows to happen so easily. Not without fighting bloody claw and fang to keep it from being so.
Even so, after everything that has happened, her father still takes a moment to sit down with her as the two of them look out the window, far past Italy. All their resources are telling them that things are starting to only get worse in the east, and that the politicians who ostensibly should protect Italy are instead paying close attention. There is so much that they will have to prepare for, in the coming months.
Her father still asks her, "Is here anything you want... anything I can do... to help you recover from what happened at the school, Dani?"
Anything she wants? There is so much she wants that she's ravenous for it, that she would do terrible and violent things for. Yet they are not things that her father can give her. For those things, she will have to work towards them on her own. She will have to take the Vongola name.
But something, anything she wants? Daniella thinks of eyes focused only on the book down at his lap, of eyes that looked out past Italy, fingers tracing the fine details of illustrations.
"A new garden," she says, and thinks of Concetta. Of the promise she once made him, of where he could work. "It doesn't need a lot of flowers."
Sometimes, Tsuna wishes he could go take a nap, wake up, and the world would be actually normal and he could just do normal person things. Go to school. Properly confess to someone, even if it never worked out. Eat a lunch and not have to worry about a potential assassination attempt. But that's not how his life tends to go. When he opens his eyes, there's still an absolute clusterfuck happening right in front of him that's composed of most of his guardians - although, as usual, the main culprits are Mukuro and Hibari.
Honestly, he guesses he should probably go and stop them, because no one else is even remotely equipped to. Dying Will is starting to come more naturally to him, little bit by little bit, so he knows it's possible. He just... really doesn't want to right now.
Besides, he's pretty sure Hibari and Mukuro need this sort of thing, at this point. Like how really big dogs need a lot of exercise and running around, only instead the dogs are two teenager super criminals with violent streaks a mile wide. He has no idea how they don't get bored of it, honestly. He really doesn't.
When he looks to his left, he's honestly just looking over to make sure that Reborn isn't creeping up on him with some terrible scheme to get right in the middle of all of this. Except, what he sees isn't the demonic toddler of his nightmares that maybe made his life better, but, instead, a pair of long legs that go up and up and wait what the hell is Chikusa doing here.
Proving his survival instinct has been severely eroded by all his time spent with the kind of people who think high stakes games of baseball are fun, Tsuna's reaction is delayed by at least two seconds before he jerks away with a yelp. "Chikusa - wait - what are you doing here?"
Chikusa doesn't even look at him; maybe turning his head is considered too much a waste of energy. All he does is slide his gaze towards Tsuna without moving, deadpan and unimpressed. ".....I live here," he points out which, okay, yes, you know what. Tsuna feels kind of dumb for that one. Chikusa probably has more reason to be hanging around here than he does.
Coughing into his hand and trying not to feel dumb (a trial he always fail), Tsuna does his best to think of a comeback from that. "I mean, why... not help Mukuro?"
"Mukuro-sama doesn't need help."
That's true, too. Probably he could live perfectly fine all on his own, without need of anyone else, and it's kind of a problem, in Tsuna's opinion. Mostly because he has to wonder if that kind of life would be lonely, but also because he's pretty sure that Mukuro needs a babysitter at all times so that he doesn't try to commit even more murder than he does already. But in a fight? He's absolutely more than enough in many cases, save for the times that he isn't.
Silence falls awkwardly between the two of them. Gokudera is throwing more dynamite, but it's far away enough that it doesn't hurt Tsuna's ears. Tsuna doesn't... really do well with silence, he's found. He never really has, but, ever since he's been surrounded by Reborn and so many friends, he's come to like it even less. So after a few seconds of tapping his fingers along his knee, Tsuna finally speaks up again. "So...." Shit. He didn't think this through. "Are your - glasses holding up well?"
Chikusa frowns, just a little bit, and it's an expression that has a few different feelings behind it. But, hey, Tsuna figures it's a more valid question than what are you doing here. He's a teenage criminal, on the run, and with no actual address for people to send some frames to. Then there are all the fights that he gets into...
It probably hurts to read like that, right? Especially if it's by, like... candle light or something. Which is sort of a weird mental image, Tsuna guesses as he rubs at his temple, but do these guys even have phones? Flashlights?
God. Maybe he should bring that in a care package. Ken might throw it at him, huffy as he can get, but Chikusa is both too lazy and more practical. He'll probably be safe.
"They're.... fine," Chikusa says at long last, his words slow and measured as ever, yet still perfectly fine Japanese. Silence falls awkwardly between them again. Yamamoto seems to be laughing a lot, even as he casually cleaves through some of Mukuro's illusions. It's hard to tell, and Mukuro himself would probably deny it if it was ever brought up, but he seems to be having a good time too. "We have a PO Box..."
Oh. "Oh, yeah, that makes sense actually," Tsuna says, although he wonders how often that box gets used. It's hard to imagine Mukuro getting a lot of things online - okay, wait, nevermind, if it's Mukuro, that's totally in character. It's just hard to imagine any of the others using it. Although... "So, do you get a lot of stuff? And, I mean you. Not, uh, Mukuro. Or Ken?" Does Ken even know how to use a computer? Tsuna has no idea. Ken doesn't seem to care about a lot of things besides the rest of the Kokuyo Gang, and food. Which.... okay? At least he has priorities?
It takes him a second to notice, but Tsuna realizes that Chikusa has actually made the effort to turn his head and look right at him, pale eyes standing out amongst all that dark hair. It - kind of leaves a tingly feeling going up the back of his neck. "...What would I even get?"
Honestly, Tsuna sort of has to wonder the same thing. While Chikusa seems a little more complex than Ken, hidden behind all that apparent apathy, Tsuna still has no idea what he's really like past everything. With all the different hats he seems to have and which Tsuna has seen him wear, well, there's always that, he guesses? And he knows the Kokuyo gang has different uniforms, although that's definitely more a Mukuro thing than anything else. But what actually comes out of his mouth in the end, as an answer, is, "I mean, gardening stuff, or something?"
It's only when the words leave him completely does Tsuna think about how little sense that makes. Where'd it even come from? If there's one of the few things that Chikusa has made clear about himself, it's that he hates too much effort (even when it's for Mukuro) and he hates getting dirty.
Gardening is all about effort and getting dirty.
Chikusa is still staring at him. His face is staring to heat up. Tsuna starts rambling, immediately, as fast as he can. "I mean, it just seems like it'd be something to do out here, since it's not like Kokuyo Land is really surrounded by, like, stores or restaurants or anything, and it'd probably be easier to get some food to snack on too, even if it's not chocolate grain like Ken loves. And it'd smell nice? Like, if there was basil, or mint, herbs like that. So it'd smell clean? Or at least okay." Is he making sense? Tsuna is feeling like he's super not making sense.
Chikusa just stares at him for a little longer, face not letting a single thought of his slip away. Tsuna's flailing hands finally come to a stop; it's not like they're doing anything for his case here. It's only after a good few minutes that Chikusa finally looks away from him. "....You shouldn't plant mint recklessly in the ground. It... tends to be invasive."
"Oh," is all Tsuna can say. Well. He didn't learn that anywhere in school, or all the wild times he's gotten mixed up in mafia nonsense.
Silence is back, once again, but it doesn't feel quite as bad this time. Instead, Tsuna gets lost in his own thoughts for a moment, enough to the point that even the battle itself sounds muted. For all that Chikusa said that mint is invasive... He hadn't responded negatively to the idea of gardening as a whole. Maybe, despite everything... He wouldn't mind it. Or maybe, at least, he wouldn't mind just planting things in all the free space Kokuyo Land offers, and seeing what nature allows to bloom.
...Maybe he'll ask Reborn, or Chrome, what the Kokuyo Gang's PO Box is. Just out of curiosity.
But he is a clever sort of man, the kind who knows how to best stay in the shadows and collect all sorts of information simply like that rather than with tricks or illusions, and there is a value in that sort of thing. He makes a fine spy; even his cousin Ricardo agrees that he's found some helpful people for his Varia through him. "It's hardly anything special," Daemon chuckles when Giotto brings it up one day. "There are always those sorts of people around, aren't there? I'm sure you've met them before, even if you haven't paid them any mind- ah, not that it's a bad thing if you did, before becoming such a man of importance. But quiet spokes on a wheel, just turning throughout the day.... No one pays such things any mind, do they? No matter what ends up said."
And maybe that's true. Maybe. Still, Giotto can't help but be curious about that quiet man, who glares at things before they have a chance to approach him. Cold and distant, maybe, but if Giotto let that stop him, he wouldn't have half the friends he has right now.
"You're so noisy," the man grumbles after a few repeated attempts of Giotto to get nearer to him. Today, such an encounter takes place deep within the old castle that they've taken up as their base - some old thing from a war long before their time that was abandoned for some of the damage done. Such cheapskates nobles can be it's nothing that a little bit of hard work can't fix. "Don't you have some.... giant empire to build or something?"
"Do I look like the kind of guy trying to make a fairy tale come to life?" Giotto laughs, settling down on a stack of.... something? They're all sacks, and they feel soft enough, so he doesn't think too hard on it. "I'm just trying to make the people here feel a little bit safer, instead of being left abandoned and picked off."
There's that glare again, where the man sits at his table some distance away, hunched over papers and candlelight. "You sound too good to be true, but I guess people don't think about that..."
What a pessimist. Then again, Daemon seems more comfortable with people like that, Giotto knows. Maybe for someone who deals so much in dreams and fantasies, it's nice to have someone a little more... down to earth? Or pessimistic, as some other people would call it. "You just say that because you don't really know me yet," Giotto says, with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not all that impressive past that."
Still the man glares at him. "From what I've heard, don't you have some weird special power...?"
"Would you believe me if I said that a beautiful woman in white told me that all people technically have this power inside of them, but it never comes out unless you're willing to act like you'll die at any minute?"
That glare only seems to get more intense. "....No. I wouldn't. Is this about the woman in charge of the Giglio Nero family, or whatever it's called....?"
"That's right. They've been willing to help us out passing through their forests. They seem nice." That isn't all there is to it, of course, far from it, and Giotto's finger grinds against the smooth metal of his ring. The ring that she gave to him, along with all of its kin. Well, it's probably for the best if not as many people know about all of those fine details. "Anyway, you don't have to glare at me so much, you know. If I'm really bothering all this studying that you're doing, you can just tell me, and I'll go."
"I'm not glaring."
Giotto blinks. "What?"
Sighing, and apparently deciding that he's not going to get any work done, the man leans back. "I'm not glaring. I'm trying to see you. You're too far away, and this light..."
Oh. Oh! Giotto immediately gets up off of the pile of sacks, trotting over to stand more fully in the light. "Well! You should have just said that earlier. I always wondered about that, but, ha ha, that makes everything make much more sense! And here I thought that you just didn't like a lot of people."
"I don't," he says bluntly, and Giotto can't help the wheezed out laugh he makes.
Now he knows a little more about him, at the very least - that he can't see as well as some other people, and that he's still blunt and distant even without taking that into consideration. Giotto thinks he likes him just for that, honestly. There's really something refreshing to someone like that. Knuckle is the same way.
"I guess maybe I should work on changing that," he says. "Although that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to talk to you. Hey, don't make that face at me! I have to keep talking to you, or else I'd just sink back to zero, now, wouldn't I?"
For all that he is a bit of a loner, sticking to Daemon or his foraging in the forest, he's not a bad guy, once you get to know him. And Giotto likes listening to him, when he has a moment to spare past all the hustle and bustle that is this active war against an unjust system. There's a kind of peace in it: the scratching of a quill, the crackle of candlelight, that dull and tired voice that responds to him ever so patiently.
His friends who make up his guardians, Shimon, and his cousin - they're all good people too, of course. They do so much for him, have stuck through him through such a tumultuous time as things keep getting bigger and bigger. But it's different, somehow, and Giotto can't quite explain why.
He can only say that he finds a sort of peace in it, even as it all continues to grow and grow, a wave which only picks up all the more power and force.
And it's the nature of waves to take things, eventually. Inevitably.
"The coffin makers never stop these days," Knuckles says quietly, the radiance of his flame and his demeanor dimmed in the somberness of the chapel. "We might run out of trees long before we run out of graves, I think. But I'm glad that you spared a second for even some of the funerals, Gio. I know it's not been easy, to find even a second to breathe, but... "
"I know," Giotto says, staring down dully at the box. "But, with everything he heard for us, and which he passed along... I couldn't not come. Especially since he was acting as a spy for our purposes.... and that was how he got caught out." His fingers dip into the pocket of his coat, rubbing at the metal frames which rest within.
When he came back, Giotto had hoped... to give him a pair of spectacles, so that he could glare with a little more purpose.
"I guess I won't be able to give you the finished thing... Cipriano."
Her father says that, these days, all the children at the school where most Families tend to send their children aren't worth half the spit that would come out of his mouth. And if she's honest, a lot of spit tends to come out of his mouth, although that really isn't something that can be helped after he took that attack into his jaw way back when she was just a little girl. Then there's his age...
But he's still managed to survive well enough, after all this time in one of the most dangerous careers in the entire world, so that's something. Daniella supposes she should be proud of that. It means she still has a father, even as she goes to a school he personally selected after what she knows was no small amount of time.
It's a tough thing, choosing a "safe" school for a mafia heiress.
But it's a plain enough little school that doesn't seem to stand out too much, there in the Italian countryside, with various other normal people who aren't involved in the criminal underworld also attending. It's just, of course, that some of the classes are a little rigorous, or a little odd, and the physical education classes are divided in such a way... that all of them future mafiosi take it together, and it tends to happen in the gym, or deep in the country side, away from any prying eyes.
It's difficult work, she knows, but there's something sort of warm in her heart that her father went to such effort to help a thing like this happen.
And she likes it. She likes talking with the various students around that know of a life outside of the criminal, students who talk about their mother's job or their father's health or the stray dog that they're taking in. This, she thinks, must have been the kind of life that Vongola Primo must have lived way back in the old days when the Vongola was first getting its legs underneath it: a life surrounded by all of the common people that he sought to protect and friends who came from all walks of life, even completely distant lands.
That's the kind of school life she'll endeavor to have, she decides.
And that means making an effort to know everyone in the school, knowing all the details that are there. It's not that she means to put herself at the very top of the ladder, really. It's just something that happens.
"Because you're too bold," one of her father's men tells her, amused, on the way back from the school, to the car that will take her down all the winding streets and back to safety. "Most other girls are a little more demure, you know. But that's probably all our fault, I think."
Danielle scoffs, and shakes her head, but she miles a little, too, because there's no denying the truth there. What kind of mafioso is demure? Her father has no sons, had no luck with it before her mother got gunned down, and he's not seemed interested in another woman, either. So she has always known it would be her that would one day stride forward, and slide the Vongola ring onto her fingers.
And so she is bold. She strides forward with no hesitation, talks with people confidently, shoots down any naysayers as though she held a rifle in her hands. People either like that, or they don't, but, either way, it seems to draw attention to her.
At least, it draws most attention to her. It is one day, before the class can start, that she looks over and realizes that there is one boy in the class who she does not know as well as all the others. A quiet sort, even more quiet than any of the others, and who never looks twice at all the hubbub in class. He has dark hair, and pale gray eyes that are focused outwards towards the shining sun and green grass.
Not unusual, honestly. All of them long to go outside, where there's less classwork to do, and the drone of their teachers could be replaced by the trill of birds. But, in some ways, he seems to be looking even long beyond that.
What's his name? She has to wonder about it.
So, when the school bell rings, and they're all encouraged to go take their lunches and eat, she waves her friends on ahead and goes right over to the other boy. "Hello," she says, loud enough that she knows she's been heard. Still, the boy almost seems to be trying to ignore her to some degree, not making eye contact. "I'm Daniella. We haven't had a chance to meet yet, have we?"
His shoulders hunch up. The antisocial sort, is he? "I think... we've had plenty of chances to meet," he says, words so achingly slow that she almost can't believe they're Italian. "But you have plenty of people to occupy yourself with."
"Maybe so." She shrugs, sharp and careless. "But I wanted to know a little more about you. What's your name, then? Come on, now, I already gave you mine. There's no need to be shy about it. What's the problem?"
What a sigh he makes. Now that she thinks about it, she doesn't think she's ever seen him interact with anyone else in the school, and he doesn't seem to be related to any of the families who work for the Vongola. Just an average boy attending what he thinks to be an average school. She could have swore she's seen him interact with someone, but who? "If I tell you it is Concetto, will that be enough...?"
"It will be enough of an introduction," she scoffs. "But come on now, why don't you eat with other people? You always squirrel away to who knows where."
"You're so bossy. Did you ever consider that maybe I don't like all that noise...?"
A quiet type who prefers quiet surroundings. Hm. Well, it isn't as though she can't understand that. During attacks, raids, so many things that happen so regularly even in times of peace, she has always thought that there was something to quiet. The quiet of waiting, where the heartbeat is the loudest thing of all. The quiet of the aftermath, where you can only hear the breath flowing through your lungs.
The quiet of just knowing that you don't have to worry about anything, at least not right now. Not right now.
"Then I won't be noisy-" He finally looks at her from the side of his gaze, just pass the lenses of his glasses. "Come on, let's go. You're reading that book, aren't you? Tell me what it is about."
"You won't be noisy... So instead you'll have me be noisy instead?" But for all the way that he sighs and his shoulders stay hunched up clear to his ears, he still goes along with it and leads her to a quiet little cluster of trees that are far away from all the most popular sunny spots where their fellow classmates sunbathe and chatter. When he splays open the book's contents, it reveals all sorts of pictures and diagrams of plants. Some she knows, others she never knew grew in Italy.
Daniella knows for a fact that he's just indulging her in hopes that she'll find him boring, and decide this is a one time affair afterwards. The joke, of course, is firmly on him.
People who pursue knowledge like that are some of the most interesting and valuable friends that one can make.
Of course, a good leader has to know when to push and when to pull back. Her father has told her this many times before. Danielle has to admit that she doesn't always listen, with it being against everything that she is, but it is advice she tries to remember, when the stakes are low, and her emotions do not burn so brightly as to blind her gaze from sensible courses of action.
So she tries not to bother him... too much, that reluctant Concetto who looks out past Italy and who keeps his nose in books and his head in the shade. There are plenty of other people she has to talk with too, people who want to gush or complain or just be around her. It'd be rude, to ignore so many people. And she likes them, too, so of course she wants to be with them as well. It's like eating a meal - you need all sorts of food to be happy and content.
But that includes him, too, whether he likes it or not.
It's just meant to be a little thing on the side, really. A person she exchanges a greeting to in the morning before the classes start, a person she goes to bother during lunch as she learns more and more about the kinds of plants which thrive in Italy. "We really do live on fertile soil," she says in admiration, when he introduces her one day to a book all about the different kind of crops that thrive on their land. There are many things to be proud of, when it comes to what her Italy can produce. She loves it. "Why do you learn so much about all of this anyway? Are you a farmer's son?"
"My aunt alleges that I am dead weight," he says flatly, and her heart stops, for a moment. "I'm into these sorts of things.... because I am into them. Just or that, and nothing else." But he sighs again, nudging those glasses of his up his nose and leaning back until his head hits against the tree they're sitting under. "So. Should I now ask if you are going to be a farmer's daughter, then...?"
Daniella laughs at him. "What, do you think I am the kind of person who would be a farmer's daughter?" She has plenty of respect for the food that gets put on her table, sure, but she just can't imagine herself in that kind of lifestyle even without-
"I don't know. Maybe the whole mafia thing is getting boring... or something."
She's the one who goes quiet, this time. Quiet and sharp, thinking of the knife that her father has made sure she always carries with her, just in case. Always just in case. "What makes you think about the mafia, then?" she asks at last, even though Concetto is already yawning as though he hasn't said one of the most alarming things in the world. "You getting shaken down?"
Because if he is - that's an entirely different discussion. She knows that. That he could be an enemy is far more concerning, and worryingly likely.
Not that Concetto seems to have a single damned care in the world, for how he just goes back to reading his book with those droopy eyes of those which say he could fall asleep at any second. "As though there's anything in my pockets you could shake out..." She has noticed he's pretty skinny, although Daniella always thought that was in proportion to the growth spurt he seems to hit every other day. She knows he wasn't that tall when she first saw him in class. "Anyway. If you're asking how I know.... I mean. I've seen people pick you up. The clothes are nice. The car's nice even if it doesn't stand out. There aren't a lot of people who fit that bill.... y'know?"
So he's just observant. Daniella frowns, thinking back and how she thought they were all so careful about it. Even the clothes were something that could be spotted, is that it? It's something that she'll have to make sure everyone else knows, the second that she gets back.
But.... That seems to be something she thinks they could possibly wait until the afternoon to deal with. If Concetto knew from a long time ago, as she suspects, but nothing has happened, then she thinks nothing will happen. She can accept it, in theory, but it's just - "Why are you so calm about it, then?" she asks. "If you know my family is mafia."
Concetto doesn't often look at her straight on. His gaze doesn't focus on people like that, instead reserved for things outside the classroom window, and all the information which lays within his books. But he looks at her now, those pale eyes of his so sharp. Are they really gray, or some sort of other color? It's hard for her to tell. "I mean, if you are mafia, then it is not as though I can do anything about it," he points out and it almost sounds reasonable when he says it like that. "Who would I tell, anyway...? Honestly.... if the local police aren't in your pocket already... They might be more useless."
Probably, that shouldn't make her laugh as hard as it does, hard enough that it takes all the air out of her in one hard rush. She laughs anyway. "I am glad that you have such faith in us, then!" she says, and elbows him in the side. He wobbles, like a willow tree in a storm. "But what tightly sealed lips you have! You know, I could use a guy like you."
The look on Concetto's face is hilarious, in some ways, and worrying in others. "Seriously....?"
There are not many people here who she can be so honest with, honestly. The people who live in the world above, a world that does not have to think of ways to make it past borders and smuggle things underneath the noses of cops, they shouldn't be dragged so carelessly into such a life. It's a dangerous one. One that Daniella is proud to be a part of, but which she would never force anyone into, with all the dangers it holds. And for those who are a part of her Vongola? None of them seem to be on the right level, who can still look at her and answer things honestly, who will not think of her as a mafia heiress they will have to obey in the future so they obey her now.
Concetto had been fine as a friend in the former category. But maybe, with that line blurred, a hole made, he might-
"I would have to do so much work being in the mafia," Concetto sighs, head hitting the tree again, and she laughs, and laughs.
When she's finally managed to recover swiping at the tears to her eyes, Daniella grins cockily. "You know, there's more to do in the mafia than just running around with a gun," she teases him. "Take care of the gardens for us. You just have to act as though you don't see a single thing that goes on, but I don't think that'd be a problem with you. After all, you seem determined to not even look inside our own classroom!"
"I can hear things just fine, you know..."
Probably, he thinks she's just joking, messing around with him, things like that. But as the days and weeks go by, as the seasons start to change hands, she rather thinks she's serious about it all. She thinks that she'd like it, having someone on the ground level who could tell her things so honestly and bluntly, without even looking at her to see her reactions. It's... comforting, she thinks.
And besides, Concetto makes her laugh, although she hardly thinks that's his intention. He just exists plainly as he is, like bramble that doesn't even bother to sprout beautiful flowers to hide all the thorns.
It is for two years that they manage to make through that little school, before it all comes tumbling down.
The attack hits sudden. One day, they are all sitting there in the classroom, not thinking about a single thing at all besides the drone of their teacher's voice, and the scratch of chalk on the board. Daniella likes sitting right there in the middle of it all. She likes how it is to be in the thick of things, how it is to be surrounded by so many people. It is a life that she thrives in. A sky cannot be empty. Concetto, as always, takes whatever window seat that he can get, and never looks at a single one of them.
But there is yelling, suddenly, in the halls. Pounding footsteps. Over from the corner of her eye, Daniella can see Concetto rising from his spot, hands flat against the desk.
It all happens at once. Daniella presses her hands to the desk, too.
Her legs do not have a chance to straighten out from underneath her before an explosion suddenly takes out the entire wall over by the windows.
Daniella gasps, ragged, hard, like there's glass shards in her throat, and she's on her back. When did she get on her back? It doesn't matter. She gets onto her feet, scrambles, doesn't care about the desk that is shattered beneath her, around her. Her ears are ringing. Ringing and ringing and there's everyone yelling, screams, cries. Her father's men are reacting as fast as they can, diving in to grab whoever they can without seeing who it is that they're grabbing, exactly. The dust makes it hard.
But what does she care of dust? Daniella staggers forward, hand automatically tugging at her shirt until it's over her nose. She can just barely see past it all, see that there's barely a wall there standing. That there's no glass at all, all of it scattered everywhere.
Blood drips down her thigh. When was she cut?
Later. Later. Figures lay scattered there against the floor, underneath pieces of wood and plaster, groaning, sobbing. The details are impossible to make out, like this, and she decides the details, then, don't matter. All she does is tug her tie loose, pull her hair back, and get to work. Yells at those who come to help her, demanding they help, too.
Even for how much she's memorized his seating habits, Concetto is still the fourth person that she finds amidst the dust. By then, the ringing in her ears has finally ceased, letting her hear the sounds of gunfire in the distance, clashing, yelling, insults. All of that she ignores, crouching down to shove rubble away and pull him up. "Shit - Concetto!"
There is no describing what has happened to his face - his eyes. Always looking out the window, and that turned out for the worst. "I can't actually feel it," he says, but his voice trembles, just a bit, blood spitting out with his words from where it's caught his lips on the drip down. "Hey. Daniella. I can't...."
An injury like this... It's not something that can be taken care of so easily. It's not something she can help him with, not now. So, gritting her teeth, Daniella tears off her little vest. "You'll make it through, and that's what matters," she says, able to feel dirt with every word from where it coats her teeth. The vest does not make a perfect thing to cover his face, staunch the blood, but it will have to do for now. Just for now, and she'll help him get better when they're out of this. "Come on. I'm going to pick you up. We're going, alright? We're going."
Dust kicks up around their feet as she hauls him over her shoulder. There's still her father's men - thank the god damn saints, there are her father's men, and they grab at her and Concetto both, hustle them through the various hallways where everyone is crowded through. There's no time to get an idea of what is going on. There's no time.
There's no time.
There's only them, the entire student body and the scant few teachers who weren't in on the whole scheme, being lead out through the back, out towards the little forested area that was near the school. Daniella spares only one glance over here shoulder to see the shootout taking place. To see that it is other mafiosi, and a couple of people in entirely foreign uniforms, who are shooting at the school.
There's no describing the words which she thinks, and which just barely manage to not leave her mouth. But she knows she will think them far later into the night, think them when she describes this mess to her Family, her father.
"Will you be alright, Concetto?" she asks, when they've all finally made it at least a little bit into the depths, when the sound of gunfire isn't so loud. Just still too close for comfort. "I want to see if I can get us a car."
They've settled down, since then, so many teenagers crouched down in the dirt. So many teenagers crying, or pale, or holding onto each other. The teachers, the normal ones, don't seem to be doing much better. But whether it's because of the adrenaline rush, or his personality, or something else entirely, Concetto still remains calm. Blood still follows the curve of his jaw, and hits the grass. "A car... in that kind of mayhem," he says, voice slow in a way that seems off from the normal. "I think there's something wrong with you... Daniella. But it's not like I could ever stop you from doing something before..."
She smiles a little bit. Laughs, just so that he can hear it, although she's not sure how well she fakes it. "No, you haven't. So just sit tight, and stay safe, alright?" It's not nearly far away enough from all the fighting to be truly safe, but... It's fine. She'll make it fine. She just has to hijack a car, pile people in, and get them the hell out of here.
One day, she's going to be the head of the Vongola. She can do that much.
Except, she never manages to find out if she can do that much, if she can do the simple task of stealing a car. She's managed to run for maybe three minutes, leaping over shrubs and ducking underneath branches, when a scream pierces up into the air. There's no hesitation for her, not a one, in turning around, in rushing over, but -
But she's too late. She runs to the sight of people splayed across the ground, the remainder trying to scramble back, the enemy there-
Daniella has never fought in a true battle. Two young for it, and she can't lie and say that people weren't thinking about her gender when they made excuses for putting such things off. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
She sees dark hair, splayed out against the ground, blood soaking into her school vest, and something burns white hot in her veins, behind her eyes, and she feels on fire. She's fire. She's grabbing the wrist of the man standing too close and breaking it with a twist, stealing the crossbow from his fingers, and firing.
Later, when the smoke has cleared, the enemies have been dispatched, and assassins are being sent out for the Families responsible for trying to sell them out to some foreign political bastards, she learns all the details. Hears about it all right there next to her father, still holding the crossbow she stole in one hand. None of it changes what happened, can make things right... but it's not for those things that she listens in, eyes burning still.
Everything that happened will not be things she allows to happen so easily. Not without fighting bloody claw and fang to keep it from being so.
Even so, after everything that has happened, her father still takes a moment to sit down with her as the two of them look out the window, far past Italy. All their resources are telling them that things are starting to only get worse in the east, and that the politicians who ostensibly should protect Italy are instead paying close attention. There is so much that they will have to prepare for, in the coming months.
Her father still asks her, "Is here anything you want... anything I can do... to help you recover from what happened at the school, Dani?"
Anything she wants? There is so much she wants that she's ravenous for it, that she would do terrible and violent things for. Yet they are not things that her father can give her. For those things, she will have to work towards them on her own. She will have to take the Vongola name.
But something, anything she wants? Daniella thinks of eyes focused only on the book down at his lap, of eyes that looked out past Italy, fingers tracing the fine details of illustrations.
"A new garden," she says, and thinks of Concetta. Of the promise she once made him, of where he could work. "It doesn't need a lot of flowers."
Sometimes, Tsuna wishes he could go take a nap, wake up, and the world would be actually normal and he could just do normal person things. Go to school. Properly confess to someone, even if it never worked out. Eat a lunch and not have to worry about a potential assassination attempt. But that's not how his life tends to go. When he opens his eyes, there's still an absolute clusterfuck happening right in front of him that's composed of most of his guardians - although, as usual, the main culprits are Mukuro and Hibari.
Honestly, he guesses he should probably go and stop them, because no one else is even remotely equipped to. Dying Will is starting to come more naturally to him, little bit by little bit, so he knows it's possible. He just... really doesn't want to right now.
Besides, he's pretty sure Hibari and Mukuro need this sort of thing, at this point. Like how really big dogs need a lot of exercise and running around, only instead the dogs are two teenager super criminals with violent streaks a mile wide. He has no idea how they don't get bored of it, honestly. He really doesn't.
When he looks to his left, he's honestly just looking over to make sure that Reborn isn't creeping up on him with some terrible scheme to get right in the middle of all of this. Except, what he sees isn't the demonic toddler of his nightmares that maybe made his life better, but, instead, a pair of long legs that go up and up and wait what the hell is Chikusa doing here.
Proving his survival instinct has been severely eroded by all his time spent with the kind of people who think high stakes games of baseball are fun, Tsuna's reaction is delayed by at least two seconds before he jerks away with a yelp. "Chikusa - wait - what are you doing here?"
Chikusa doesn't even look at him; maybe turning his head is considered too much a waste of energy. All he does is slide his gaze towards Tsuna without moving, deadpan and unimpressed. ".....I live here," he points out which, okay, yes, you know what. Tsuna feels kind of dumb for that one. Chikusa probably has more reason to be hanging around here than he does.
Coughing into his hand and trying not to feel dumb (a trial he always fail), Tsuna does his best to think of a comeback from that. "I mean, why... not help Mukuro?"
"Mukuro-sama doesn't need help."
That's true, too. Probably he could live perfectly fine all on his own, without need of anyone else, and it's kind of a problem, in Tsuna's opinion. Mostly because he has to wonder if that kind of life would be lonely, but also because he's pretty sure that Mukuro needs a babysitter at all times so that he doesn't try to commit even more murder than he does already. But in a fight? He's absolutely more than enough in many cases, save for the times that he isn't.
Silence falls awkwardly between the two of them. Gokudera is throwing more dynamite, but it's far away enough that it doesn't hurt Tsuna's ears. Tsuna doesn't... really do well with silence, he's found. He never really has, but, ever since he's been surrounded by Reborn and so many friends, he's come to like it even less. So after a few seconds of tapping his fingers along his knee, Tsuna finally speaks up again. "So...." Shit. He didn't think this through. "Are your - glasses holding up well?"
Chikusa frowns, just a little bit, and it's an expression that has a few different feelings behind it. But, hey, Tsuna figures it's a more valid question than what are you doing here. He's a teenage criminal, on the run, and with no actual address for people to send some frames to. Then there are all the fights that he gets into...
It probably hurts to read like that, right? Especially if it's by, like... candle light or something. Which is sort of a weird mental image, Tsuna guesses as he rubs at his temple, but do these guys even have phones? Flashlights?
God. Maybe he should bring that in a care package. Ken might throw it at him, huffy as he can get, but Chikusa is both too lazy and more practical. He'll probably be safe.
"They're.... fine," Chikusa says at long last, his words slow and measured as ever, yet still perfectly fine Japanese. Silence falls awkwardly between them again. Yamamoto seems to be laughing a lot, even as he casually cleaves through some of Mukuro's illusions. It's hard to tell, and Mukuro himself would probably deny it if it was ever brought up, but he seems to be having a good time too. "We have a PO Box..."
Oh. "Oh, yeah, that makes sense actually," Tsuna says, although he wonders how often that box gets used. It's hard to imagine Mukuro getting a lot of things online - okay, wait, nevermind, if it's Mukuro, that's totally in character. It's just hard to imagine any of the others using it. Although... "So, do you get a lot of stuff? And, I mean you. Not, uh, Mukuro. Or Ken?" Does Ken even know how to use a computer? Tsuna has no idea. Ken doesn't seem to care about a lot of things besides the rest of the Kokuyo Gang, and food. Which.... okay? At least he has priorities?
It takes him a second to notice, but Tsuna realizes that Chikusa has actually made the effort to turn his head and look right at him, pale eyes standing out amongst all that dark hair. It - kind of leaves a tingly feeling going up the back of his neck. "...What would I even get?"
Honestly, Tsuna sort of has to wonder the same thing. While Chikusa seems a little more complex than Ken, hidden behind all that apparent apathy, Tsuna still has no idea what he's really like past everything. With all the different hats he seems to have and which Tsuna has seen him wear, well, there's always that, he guesses? And he knows the Kokuyo gang has different uniforms, although that's definitely more a Mukuro thing than anything else. But what actually comes out of his mouth in the end, as an answer, is, "I mean, gardening stuff, or something?"
It's only when the words leave him completely does Tsuna think about how little sense that makes. Where'd it even come from? If there's one of the few things that Chikusa has made clear about himself, it's that he hates too much effort (even when it's for Mukuro) and he hates getting dirty.
Gardening is all about effort and getting dirty.
Chikusa is still staring at him. His face is staring to heat up. Tsuna starts rambling, immediately, as fast as he can. "I mean, it just seems like it'd be something to do out here, since it's not like Kokuyo Land is really surrounded by, like, stores or restaurants or anything, and it'd probably be easier to get some food to snack on too, even if it's not chocolate grain like Ken loves. And it'd smell nice? Like, if there was basil, or mint, herbs like that. So it'd smell clean? Or at least okay." Is he making sense? Tsuna is feeling like he's super not making sense.
Chikusa just stares at him for a little longer, face not letting a single thought of his slip away. Tsuna's flailing hands finally come to a stop; it's not like they're doing anything for his case here. It's only after a good few minutes that Chikusa finally looks away from him. "....You shouldn't plant mint recklessly in the ground. It... tends to be invasive."
"Oh," is all Tsuna can say. Well. He didn't learn that anywhere in school, or all the wild times he's gotten mixed up in mafia nonsense.
Silence is back, once again, but it doesn't feel quite as bad this time. Instead, Tsuna gets lost in his own thoughts for a moment, enough to the point that even the battle itself sounds muted. For all that Chikusa said that mint is invasive... He hadn't responded negatively to the idea of gardening as a whole. Maybe, despite everything... He wouldn't mind it. Or maybe, at least, he wouldn't mind just planting things in all the free space Kokuyo Land offers, and seeing what nature allows to bloom.
...Maybe he'll ask Reborn, or Chrome, what the Kokuyo Gang's PO Box is. Just out of curiosity.