#khrkin

Happy Halloween Hyphen! I hope this Hibarin makes your day special :0

Then what are you doing with your life?

ARC 1 - Trilies (James)

note: this might be a little rough around the edges but i hope you like it!

———-

Ten years later, and Tsuna still wakes up not knowing whose body he’s in.

He knows where he is. Of course he does. The Iron Fortress, stalwart home to the Vongola Famiglia for decades, has changed so little in some ways. Sure, there are the shallow aesthetic differences which mark every boss’ change of taste, or the deeper technological changes which have signaled the passage of time…. But, when Tsuna wakes up with his eyes to the ceiling, he sees none of that. All he see is the same ceiling she’s- he’s- <i>they’ve</i>- seen for decades. Them, the bosses of the Vongola.

Them, those people whose bloody memories he was forced to see when he was only fourteen, in a future that demanded such a sacrifice.

Sometimes, the confusion is only brief, a passing thing where he’s barely awake in the early morning where his anxiety from the previous night warps into something else. He goes to bed Tsuna, worrying at the idea of a meeting with another two Families over a territorial dispute that’s starting to spill over into strictly Vongola lands. When he awakes, for that half second, he thinks of how he’ll have to show strength, how he’ll have to demonstrate to everyone that he can carry on, because it doesn’t matter that Ricardo is dead, it can’t matter-

Tsuna blinks both fogginess and decades old power struggles out of his eyes. He’s fully himself again by the time he sits up straight in his bed, and can see his phone blinking brightly over on the dresser.

Those are the average days, for him. They’re not perfect days, <i>obviously</i>. Perfect days are when he goes to sleep and wakes up, with the only thing bothering him being how comfortable it is to stay in bed. Yet ‘average’ is still average, a simple and unobtrusive medium that’s maybe a little annoying but would be far worse if it lasted for more than a second or two.

Some days, it’s not so simple and easy.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even make it to 'day’.

Was it so bad in Japan? Tsuna isn’t sure. He feels like it can’t have been, can it, or else how on earth would he have ever made it through middle and high school? Maybe it was because so much happened, in those early years, because what’s a quiet month or two? Meeting Shimon, dealing with the Arcobaleno, every other mess that came after that as him and all his own struggled to become polished adults instead of frantic children… When you’re having an anxiety adrenaline crash after fighting someone like Xanxus, not counting all the injuries, well, dreams don’t get a chance to grab a hold. The darkness of simple sleep overrules, overtakes them. These days, it’s not so simple.

Outright war, shows of overwhelming might, battle royales- those kinds of things aren’t actually the <i>norm</i> in the underworld, funnily enough. Sure, there’s a lot of it in some ways, which he thinks might have something to do with a kind of cultural machismo. Hit and runs to take out enemies in the really violent territorial disputes, self absorbed posturing just enough to skirt the limit of the unspoken rules… Violence still happens. It’s the mafia, the dark and gory underworld. But the real power plays… No. Those are all in the politics, who does what business where, the kind of allies and enemies a Family makes. Such problems aren’t the kind that can be finished, done and <i>done</i>, with simple fights, no matter if they’re brawls or locked to the death. It’s just as much as what he dealt with in middle school… only it never stops, but it never escalates, either. He has to work so damn hard to keep it from escalating, even if that has it lurking in the background of his every day…

Exhausting, but not exhausting to knock mind and body completely out in the way a brawl can. It’s not enough.

It’s not enough.

He wakes up, legs feeling weak, soul feeling weak, and he blindly gropes to the side of his bed for the can that should be there. Coyote tells him he should rest more, that he’s grown too old for working overnight, but he grew too old for this station <i>years</i> ago. This shouldn’t be his bed. This shouldn’t be his title. Yet if he got so preoccupied on all the things that shouldn’t be, he’d get nothing done, nothing at all. Hopefully Brow Jr. won’t tell on him. It’s just… There’s no cane nearby, and he swears quietly in Italian. Fine. He’ll get up on his own. He does get up on his own. He has his own two legs, after all, weak though they may be. They shake beneath him, carrying him out of his room, but they still carry him regardless. Maybe he can hold on long enough to hand over the reins to someone else. But to fight his own son, ice over his knuckles- wasn’t it his cane- ?

Gokudera finds him standing dully in the hallway, staring blankly at a reflection he expected to have wrinkles and graying hair instead of wild messy brown and bags under his eyes. “Tenth!” he says, because some old habits never leave, and often have a tendency of popping up under stress. He corrects himself a second later, even as he’s rushing over, one hand lighting gently along his shoulder. “Tsuna. You should be asleep."

A little more awake, he looks up at Gokudera. His hair catches the attention of the dim moonlight, here, and he almost looks like a ghost this way. Yet he is a ghost of his own making, not one of crawling tattoos and dark eyes. That, at least, is some reassurance. It’s one thing to lose himself; he couldn’t bear it if he lost his friends at the same time. That enough draws a faint smile onto Tsuna’s face, although he imagines his exhaustion takes away from some of the sincerity. "I’m pretty sure I could say the same for you,” he says, looking his right hand man up and down. It’s the exact same suit, plus a lot more wrinkles, he saw him wear at dinner- or maybe it’s “last night’s dinner” by this point. He can’t remember looking at a clock. “Hypocrisy is why Lambo doesn’t listen to you sometimes."

In a lot of ways, Gokudera has grown. His face still scrunches up into an almost scowl, however, and the old familiarity of it is soothing. "Lambo doesn’t <i>listen</i> because he’s a brat,” he says, which is the same thing he’s had to say about Lambo for a decade now and only sometimes really means it nowadays. “But that’s besides the point.”

“Which is that we <i>both</i> need to be asleep,” Tsuna points out. Gokudera looks like he wants to protest, but Tsuna doesn’t let him. Instead, he takes his hand away from his shoulder, and takes in the sensation of quiet burn scars on the fingertips. Yeah. Yeah, this is definitely Gokudera. Gokudera Hayato, and no one else. “I’ll go to sleep if you do, too. How’s that for an offer you can’t refuse?”

That last line draws out a slight huff of a laugh from Gokudera, eyes crinkling in faint amused fondness. “We need to stop you from watching dumb movies like that,” he tells him, all the while surrendering to Tsuna’s quiet lead. “It’s going to influence your work something awful."

He wakes up beneath the same ceiling his cousin once slept under, the sound of quiet movement in his ear, and fire burning in his veins. There’s no need to think twice about it. In the blink of an eye, he tears off his blanket with one hand. On the other, flames spark into life, crackling along his knuckles and flaring from his fingertips. They don’t burn as hot as he wants them to, as they should, but he can worry about that later, after he’s taken care of the assassin in Giotto’s- in his bedroom. There’s no doubt it’s him they’re coming for, however. Day after day, he has to worry about being so unpopular, and he knows why. Giotto was the charismatic one, the charming one, the one whose sky spread out so encompassing. In contrast, his sky is a stormy one, a red one that sailors tell each other to watch out for instead of going out to see. Sure, it’s through him that the Vongola is growing stronger and stronger… but strength breeds enemies. Breeds resentment, even from allies, that he’s not that warm sky, that Giotto isn’t still here instead of who knows where in the whole world. Many are morning his absence, still.

Do they think he isn’t mourning, too!? Him, the one who’s actually been by Giotto’s side for so many god damn years?!

His flame doesn’t grow any brighter in his hand, doesn’t feed off of his rage, but he feels comfortable as it wraps around him and the flame flares forward in a violent burst. For a brief flickering moment, his room- Giotto’s room- is so bright that it could be daytime again instead of cool night. Bright enough, with his flame before him, that he doesn’t immediately see who it is that’s so bold as to come after him in his own home. Then there’s a flare of purple, ravenous and strong, that burns through his own flames, sets them scattering like embers. There, past the burning orange, he sees… He sees…

There’s a face he sure knows, beneath that stupid mop of hair he definitely knows, and he feels his lip curls. He would have understood it coming from any of Giotto’s, and maybe it’s no surprise, not really, to see that it’s Alaude who broke from his cousin’s wishes and is here now with those unreadable eyes of is. Cold and vicious Alaude, distant from Family and kin alike… He had respected him, once, for his power, for the friendship which tied the two of them to Giotto.

But he doesn’t respect him so much that he won’t shatter his fucking jaw for coming after him.

He leaps over his bed, fingers curled into a burning fist, and a flurry of blows are exchanged between them. His blood heats up all the hotter as he’s reminded of Alaude’s skill with each parry and dodge. Maybe this is what he’s wanted. All the political bullshit, that was Giotto, but this- His hand jerks up to stop a weapon from slamming into his face, still brilliant with his will. A good chance to disarm, or just to tug him right into another hit-

"You’re not meant to do this,” Alaude says, tone the same but the language- different? Japanese? For a split second, he pauses, and his eyes follow the gaze of his would-be assassin, his cousin’s treasured friend. He’s looking towards where his fingers are curled around the tonfa, knuckles pressing out sharply against his skin, and… They’re burning, skin drying, splitting, and what the <i>hell</i>, that isn’t right, his flames should never hurt him, he’s not that weak, he doesn’t need gloves like his cousin- except he does, he should, where-

The <i>other</i> tonfa comes in hard, slams into his skull, and sends him crashing right into the floor.

Sometimes, he’s grateful that he was made to learn the English his schools insisted upon or the Italian required for running a mafia. Sure, that meant Reborn did such things like dropping him in the middle of Germany  with the bare minimum of preparation, ordering him to make his way back to Italy, somehow, but now Tsuna knows all sorts of languages, even if some are better than others. More importantly, he knows the most important part of other languages, which are the swear words. Tsuna makes sure to swear a whole <i>fucking</i> lot as he writhes there on the floor with his hands clutching at his head. There’s a certain comfort to any language’s foul subset, and he wrings every single one he knows for what he’s worth.

Standing over him, Hibari clearly has no sympathy for him as he hooks his tonfa back onto his hip. Displaying weapons so openly is a privilege he tries to restrict to the Vongola base, his own various headquarters, or Namimori. After all, as wild as it may sound, there are <i>some</i> places in the world which don’t know to back away quickly at just hearing his name. Hands free, he leans down and hauls Tsuna up by the back of his pajamas. “Awake?” he asks bluntly while Tsuna’s heels drag along the floor.

“I’m awake,” he groans, not protesting when he’s deposited on his bed with all the grace of a discarded toy. “And with a headache.”

Hibari tilts his chin up, a clear sign that he doesn’t care in the <i>slightest</i>, and merely holds one hand out expectantly. Well, it’s not as if Tsuna cares to wander around with his injuries bared. He has some sense. Silently, he surrenders both of his hands to Hibari and watches his Guardian get to work. It takes a certain… <i>something</i>for someone to have their Flames burn openly on their skin without any medium or harm. The Arcobaleno can do it, because there’s a reason they’re the best. Xanxus can do it, because Tsuna is pretty sure his level of spite acts as a protective barrier against his own rage. Tsuna is neither the best at anything or spiteful enough. Thus, well…

Thus the way his fingers quiver from little bursts of pain, and patches of skin so burned and dry that the blood is creeping down already. Despite the distant expression on his face and the way Tsuna’s skull is still pounding, Hibari holds his hands so delicately while Cloud flames curl out from his ring. There are still some days where it seems like it might have been a mistake to ever let Hibari meet Skull, quick as he was to pick up on the unique way the stuntsman could regenerate from his injuries. But some days… Some nights… It’s alright. His hands are just cool enough against the heat that still seems to burn from beneath Tsuna’s skin, and his Cloud flames push away the torn skin and hurt. From underneath his bangs, messier than usual in the dead of night, Tsuna looks up at Hibari’s face.

He remembers Alaude. Not because he really <i>wants</i> to, but he remembers. Hibari’s skin is a little darker than his, he thinks. A little more tanned, as a consequence of having fights anywhere and everywhere no matter whatever. Ice blue eyes are also strikingly different than Hibari’s gray ones, eyes which look night black right now, with none of the lights turned on. And, well… Quite obviously, Hibari isn’t a blond. How on earth could he have mistaken him for a blond? Tsuna’s gaze slides back down to their joined hands. It must have been the light, the burning flare of his own Flames, washing everything in such bright color.

The light, and memories that don’t belong to him.

But Hibari is here. He’s here. Leaning in just a little closer and not being rebuffed for it, Tsuna closes his eyes and lets that be enough.

She wakes up, mist on the back of her tongue, and thinks <i>I am going to drag that shit-sucking ghost off to meet the saints by his nostrils with my own two hands, so help me God</i>. For whatever reason, he’s right by her bed, which is good. By her bed means he’s in easy reach, all the moreso since he’s crouched down. She thrusts her hand out, seeing through his illusions and going a little more to the right in order to grab him by the hair. Different hairstyle, just a little, and it might even be better than what he’s had previously, but that was never a high bar to pass. Doesn’t really matter. However his hair is styled or cut, it’s still too long, and thus perfect to dig her fingers in so that she can slam his head into her bed frame.

Her own personal ghost snarls out a swear, startled for once, and that’s just fine by her. She’s the one who should be really swearing! They’re in the middle of a <i>war</i>, a fight against the utterly selfish, and she doesn’t need some gaudy specter hovering over her shoulder. Pushing herself forward, feet digging into the mattress, she forces them both onto the ground. Yet even as she does so, something is already wrong. Her body doesn’t feel right, doesn’t have the subtle weight in her hips she’s looking for to help keep herself anchored. In the brief moment where she’s trying to account for that, the hair in her hands is already twisting away into nothingness. God Almighty, if she doesn’t hate illusionists.

Pushing herself up from her knees to her feet, she narrows her eyes at the jackass who’s already forming on the other side of her room. He’s wearing such a smugly amused smirk underneath those sharp eyes of his, it makes her fingers twitch for her crossbow. Where is it, anyway? She needs to grab it before he can pull any nonsense, needs to grab it and put an end to all for this, for Family, for country, for her son-

“Now, Tenth Vongola, I thought you said I was <i>always</i> welcome in the Vongola’s home base?”

Tenth? But that’s at least two- Squeezing tired eyes shut barely helps, but any help is good enough, right now. No, not a ghost, but a stupid self-named corpse-

When Tsuna opens his eyes, he makes sure to look down over at his bed and groans, softly. The back of his head is still cotton-thick with old war strategies, guerrilla tactics, but he pushes all of that aside. “Stop stealing my snacks! I have to beg Kusakabe to get them!”

Because he’s a jerk, and some other words Tsuna tries to restrain himself from using too often because he’s not Xanxu, Mukuro carelessly dismisses the complaint. “So stingy,” he says loftily, as if he wasn’t the one who broke into a mafia don’s bedroom at… What time is it, even, midnight? No, not midnight, two in the morning. As if he wasn’t the one who broke into a mafia don’s bedroom at two in the morning to dig underneath his bed for some Kit-Kats. “Trouble sleeping?"

From anyone else, it would be concern. From Mukuro, it comes off intentionally condescending and arrogant, and Tsuna looks back at him with his hands dragging down his face. "I mean, you’re the one who woke me up, because you were stealing the snacks I have under my bed, because you’re apparently too cheap to buy your own, despite the fact that I know you have plenty of illegal money,” Tsuna points out rather bluntly. He got used to Mukuro’s melodramatic nonsense sometime around the start of middle school, a fact which he’s pretty sure the illusionist is still sulking about even all these years later. Normally, he tries to play nice with him, but, well. It’s two in the morning and he’s down a whole box of Kit-Kats. “But, sure, I guess I’m having trouble sleeping.”

Mukuro huffs out a small laugh, as if Tsuna is just lying and not, in fact, calling him out. He can still tell he’s a little put out, however. Since the time they were teenagers, Mukuro has become a marginally better actor. It’s just that he’s still at the level of skill that, without his illusions, Tsuna can pick up on his tells. Or maybe it’s just hyper intuition coming through yet again, as it has for every Vongola boss in the previous generations. “You may want to be careful, Vongola,” he drawls, his pace around the room matching the roll of his voice. He really is acting as if he hasn’t heard him, hasn’t he? The absolute <i>child</i>. Sometimes it amazes Tsuna how immature so many criminals in the underworld are, but, then, that probably explains why he’s so good at his job. Mukuro continues to talk, snapping him out of his own mental bubble. “If you’re so out of it, who knows what could happen to a mafia don in middle of the night?”

It’s probably supposed to be threatening. Tsuna just blinks at him. “Are you worried about me?”

Yep, there goes the act, and Mukuro scowls while bristling. “You are my future vessel,” he sneers, already emitting enough mist to successfully woo a fog machine. “And I won’t have anyone touch what is mine.”

“Gay!” Tsuna calls into his room, even as the mist dissipates quite rapidly through the barest cracks of his window. Considering his own orientation, it’s not like that’s an <i>insult</i>, but, you know. He won’t miss out on a chance to mock Mukuro’s inability to admit to caring about anyone. Whatever. With his room now fully empty, none of his senses hinting that something is hidden and lying in wait, he rubs his face and looks around. Two in the morning… Yeah. That’s still early enough for him to try and get some more sleep again, he thinks. He might wake up a little late, the adrenaline leaking out of him still taking its sweet time… But not late enough to matter.

It’s right as he’s tugging the blankets up over his shoulders that he comes to a pause, and buries his face into his pillow with a loud groan. “I should have asked him if he knows how to deal with this sort of thing-!”

Everyone brings with them their own bloody memories, their own pain and misery and trials. It weighs on him, tires him, but, even for all his wondering if it will ever stop- surely it has to- Tsuna thinks he could manage it. Ricardo’s bitter and blinding rage, Daniela’s heavy war, the exhaustion which dragged down Timoteo with every passing year- he could manage it. He really thinks he could.

But their memories aren’t the ones that visit him the most.

Hands shake him awake one morning, a laughing voice telling him things in Japanese, and he blearily thinks <i>Ugetsu, I can’t understand Japanese so easily yet, slow down, slow down</i>. It takes him five minutes of sitting up in bed, listening and blinking consciousness into his eyes, before his mind clears and he sees Yamamoto sitting there on the bed with him, gesturing and laughing still.

One night he wakes up, the weight of the ring hanging from his neck too heavy for sleep, and goes wandering through the halls. A lanky teenage figure, trying to slink in a way that doesn’t really befit someone who was once nobility, emerges from the kitchens with an armful of sweets and freezes up. He hardly notices, just rambling about how he was looking for Knuckle, he feels better when he speaks to the priest, don’t you agree, Lampo? Every response is quietly noncommital, enough to keep the converation going as he’s herded back to his room. Tsuna doesn’t even realize what’s happened until he’s woken up, and there’s a small tray of cookies by his bedside.

Chrome is the only one who wakes him up immediately, whose appearance doesn’t drag him down into the depths of dead people’s memories. Even better, her success rate of being around always seems to be more rather than not- finding him in the halls, waiting patiently in a library older than his parents, even sometimes just sitting at the end of his bed as if it isn’t the middle of the night and this wouldn’t be mildly worrying behavior from anyone else. (Or maybe it’s still worrying. Hibari has his excuse, but Tsuna has some questions about Mukuro and Chrome’s habits.)

“I just wish they’d stop happening so <i>much</i>,” he tell her in the quiet of his room, woken up particularly early by the bitter taste of something that almost tastes like betrayal and misery. They’re scrunched up together on his bed, legs crossed, facing one another. Chrome has his hand balanced carefully in hers, carefully working on applying polish to his nails. Unlike Kyoko, Haru doesn’t have the privilege of being related to a Vongola Guardian, and all the money and services which come available with that. But because they’re Family, it seems all three girls have decided to not have their nails painted by anyone but each other. So Kyoko takes care of Chrome’s, and Chrome takes care of Haru’s, and sometimes a guinea pig is needed before anything is tried. At least, Chrome likes to use him as a guinea pig, and Tsuna lets her. Tonight, it’s a practice in gradient.

It’s not very 'manly’, but Tsuna kind of gave up on <i>that</i> years ago even before he started talking regularly to Mammon, who discarded gender before he was born. Or Mukuro and Chrome, who seem to easily exchange it as much as anything else between them. He thought maybe Reborn would have problems with it, the first time he saw it on Tsuna’s fingertips, but all his hellish teacher did was ask Chrome if she would have the time to do his, sometimes. Tsuna isn’t sure why he expected anything different from the guy who regularly wears whatever he wants, skirt or trousers or whatever.

So, yeah. He lets Chrome practice on him sometimes. As the head of the most powerful crime syndicate in the entire world, everyone else can die mad about it if they have a problem.

“You should go into the ring and tell them to stop bothering you,” Chrome says quietly, head bowed in concentration. Adding on an even coat is truly a trial, as it turns out, and that’s half the hardest part. At least they’ve moved onto applying liquid latex over the now brilliant white of his nail. He thinks he likes it. The color stands out nicely against the scars of his hands. “That’s where it started.”

A soft huff of dry laughter slips out from between his teeth. “I don’t think that’s how it works."  It would sure be nice if it did. Now that he’s no longer a teenager in way over his head, having no idea what to expect, he thinks he would have a lot to say to the parts of the Vongola that are still lingering in the ring. Some admonishments, some concerns, questions about them now that he has such intimate access to their lives in more ways than one.

With the latex applied, Chrome moves onto applying polish to a makeup sponge. Holding the colors up to what meager light filters in through his window, she hums. "Did the Eighth ever wear nail polish?” she asks.

It’s so strange, to hear their titles instead of their names. He knows so much about each and every one of them, more than he could have ever asked for. Giotto, the first, bright fire burned down to embers from something bigger than he could have dreamed, big enough for betrayal to be an inevitability instead of a nightmare. Ricardo, the second, tossing all his rage and bitterness and loss to the fire which burned out in a blast because he’d never have it any other way. Miserably, he’d never have it any other way. The stories, the memories, go on and on, from Callisto sliding his dagger into unsuspecting backs to keep his own safe, all the way to the Daniela, the eighth, surviving a bloody war to try and make a Family her predecessors would be truly proud of.

To the ninth.

To him.

“No, I don’t think so,” he tells Chrome, watching her apply a second gradient coat and layer it with something clear. “It was kind of a luxury for along time, and then she just didn’t bother.” His door handle clicks a little, drawing his attention, but he already knows the drifting cloud that is right outside his door. It’s fine.

This is fine.

Others survived these memories and, with Chrome painting his nails and Hibari inviting himself in like always, Tsuna feels like he knows why.

ARC 2 - Oslekharbour (Finch)

ARC 3 - Pickingweeds (Choi)

Hope you enjoy these lil doodles! I had a lot of fun drawing the golden trio + hibari as reindeer!

(p.s. Reborn is totally responsible for this)