Archive of Our Own

There is a light tapping of his fingerpads against the desk's surface, eyes on Hayato in the center of the room.

He looks down at the paper in front of him, complicated graphs and names he knows but doesn't bother recognizing — swallows, his throat overly dry. His fingers reach for the glass of water, cold wetness on his skin as he takes a long sip.

It does nothing to soothe his throat, liquid burning on his tongue as he keeps drinking. Pins are prickling at his insides, overwhelming urge to scratch at the skin of his neck until there are red marks all over.

It is absolutely terrible, he thinks, but there is little he can even do. So he keeps the glass to his lips, tiny sips in hopes of feeling better.

"That is it for this week's report, Juudaime," Hayato concludes, snippets of pride in certain syllables of his words.

Tsuna nods, sending a small smile that has his Guardian light up with joy.

He ignores the pointed stares from the right side of the table, dark eyes heavy on his form.

Not the time, he thinks, empty glass set down on the desk.

"Good," Tsuna says, hoping his voice doesn't break in the middle of him talking, "then, Hibari-san, is there anything on CEDEF's front?"

He avoids eye contact for as long as he can muster, turning his head only when it's about to become too obvious.

His Cloud's stare is cold; judgemental and dissatisfied in a way that has Tsuna almost guilty. He smiles, returning the look without any semblance of hesitance — Hibari's brows furrow even more. Their game of cat-and-mouse is less scary two years in.

"Nothing you need to bother with," he responds, voice laced with annoyance.

Hayato shouts something at him, palms slamming against the table — Tsuna doesn't bother listening, too busy keeping himself from breaking apart.

Chrome notices, her eye meeting his — he shakes his head the tiniest amount, confident he can get through the rest of the meeting without any coverage from his Mists. He pointedly doesn't look at Mukuro — he is fine now; there is no point in playing with fire.

It's not like they have much left, anyway.

He smiles at the irony — there is a hint of something metallic on the tip of his tongue.

"Alright, then," Tsuna announces, words soft, "if that is all, we can call it here. Takeshi, don't forget that you and Ryohei have to be in Bolzano by Thursday. I don't think there's anything to worry about, but stop by Gianini before leaving, just in case."

Yamamoto nods, a bright smile on his face as he rests his hand on their Sun's shoulder. Tsuna ignores the way Mukuro stays close to the exit, nodding for Chrome and Kyoya to go — he should be thankful, probably; instead, he feels the way thorns cut a little too deep inside.

"Got it," there is an excited scream from Ryohei, something about extreme that Tsuna doesn't pay attention to, before Takeshi speaks once again. "Oh, by the way, do you plan on stopping by Varia's base soon?"

Tsuna's eyes shift to his Rain, a fake smile already planted on his lips. Mukuro's gaze across the room burns. Tsuna thinks he's being unfair — his Mist should be proud of how far he's come in lying.

"I wasn't sure if I had time," he says, slow, every word careful as he ignores the tightening of his throat. "Why?"

Takeshi hums, thoughtful. Hyper Intuition lightly brushes against Tsuna's nerves, calming whispers of he isn't on to you.

"Just some stuff I wanted to drop by Squalo before leaving," Yamamoto shrugs, light smile as he looks him in the eye. "It's fine, though, don't worry about it, Tsuna!"

There is a pang of guilt, then — not because of Takeshi; not because he's lying to his Rain, which is mortifying in its own right (since when has he become so comfortable with lying to his Guardians; why doesn't it feel wrong anymore; why is he more concerned with lying to—).

Tsuna thinks of burgundy eyes; Tsuna thinks of a date circled in his calendar — no note about what it is, completely unnecessary after so many years.

Hayato steps in front of them, annoyed, huffs as he uses the papers from the meeting to slap Takeshi over the head.

"Juudaime is not your errand boy, dumbass, don't make him do your job for you."

Tsuna chuckles, his throat somehow even drier than should be possible.

There are burgundy eyes in his vision; yellow petals and flames filled with anger.

"There's no problem, Hayato," he says, words coming out without him thinking. "Leave it in the office; I'll be sure to grab it on my way."

Takeshi laughs, pleased, thanking him as Hayato pushes him out of the office with a touched whisper of Juudaime's kindness knows no bounds; you should be forever grateful, baseball idiot — before they're out of the room, bickering and laughing as they go.

Tsuna stays sitting for the first few seconds, slow breaths of oxygen.

Mukuro is no longer at the door, probably deciding to disappear in the midst of their conversation — Tsuna notes it dully, his feet taking him to the door.

The lock is icy-cold against his fingers as he clicks it shut, ears straining to hear any semblance of movement on the other side.

He turns around, then, walking back to his desk — four steps that get progressively faster; the fifth one that ends with him falling to his knees, hands curled on his chest.

The bucket Tsuna keeps underneath his table is black, made out of plastic that is easy to clean out — no spots of blood; not even a single sign of anything being wrong. He grabs it, long white fingers stark against the darkness, pulls it to his lap, saliva hitting the bottom with a loud plop.

There is a burning in his throat, when he coughs — quietly, suppressing any sound; agonizing in his desperate attempts to not be heard.

He feels it more than sees — there are tears in his eyes, blocking his vision — hot streaks of blood spilling down his chin, mixed with spit and scraps of soaked-in-red roses. He gets a small breath in, lungs constricting, before petals get him to choke.

Tsuna pulls the bucket closer, presses the plastic so tightly to his chest he feels it dig in even through layers of fabric; coughs again and again, tears falling down into the mix of horrifying mash of his insides on the very bottom.

It doesn't last long — never did — a small cruelty wrapped in faux-mercy. He sometimes wonders if it would be better to keep coughing for hours; until every single flower in his chest is spilled on the floor in front of him. He sometimes wonders if he could collect them in a small bouquet of his pathetic love.

He sometimes wonders if Reborn would accept it.

Tsuna finds himself hunched over the bucket, again, a bloodied flower escaping his throat.

He laughs, then, which makes it worse — there is spit running down the corner of his mouth, and he can't take a proper breath, which forces him to cough even more. He blinks the tears away, looking down — the bucket is three-fourths of the way filled, a mix of burgundy and black roses, his blood making it into an ugly cocktail that has his stomach churned.

Tsuna smiles, taking a breath that smells too much like blood and gunpowder.

He sits for the next few minutes, bucket on his lap, before finally getting up to clean himself.

It starts when he is barely twenty.

They are in Italy, at that point, his title as the Decimo finally official — he smiles awkwardly at his men's greetings, his Italian barely enough to respond without looking like a fool.

Reborn smirks, amused, lines and lines of mockery in Italian — an incentive to learn, Dame-Tsuna — that doesn't have him feeling anything but embarrassing attraction. It's mortifying, the way he looks at Reborn in his newly-twenty-two-year-old body, thinking about how hot he finds his voice instead of being even remotely offended.

Not as mortifying as when he runs to the bathroom in the middle of the night, coughing up white petals into the sink.

Tsuna doesn't say a word, at first, too panicked to talk to anyone around.

He walks out of the mansion, his civilian clothes on, lies about wanting to see Sicily without Vongola following his every step on his tongue. Reborn looks at him, eyes narrowed, before letting him go.

Tsuna fakes clearing his throat, hiding scraps of roses in his palm.

It doesn't take much to find the nearest library around, booting up a computer in a lonely corner on the third floor. He pulls his legs up, resting his chin on his knees, and begins reading.

Hanahaki is a condition of unrequited love.

Tsuna's throat dries up, eyes still roaming around the screen.

Rejection can be deadly; surgery would completely eliminate the illness, but there is a high chance of forgetting the one you loved.

He scrolls down, ignoring a friendly blue box that pops up: if you or anyone you know is suffering through hanahaki, be sure to conta—

White roses represent innocence and new love.

Tsuna turns the computer off.

Varia's base is as pretty as he remembers.

It's weird, the way coming back to it feels like coming home — he never voices it, knowing how bad the reaction of his Guardians or anyone else in Vongola would be — but he still finds it calming.

No one questions why he's here.

They did, at first, lower-ranking members coming to a sudden stop — not sure if they should bow or attack, their loyalty wholeheartedly to Varia rather than the main family itself. Tsuna always smiled, amused, walking straight to the boss' room.

Now, they don't even look his way — an occasional nod is the most he gets these days.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Squalo drawls, silver of his eyes cold. "Missed the past few times — thought you gave up on our shitty boss."

Tsuna smiles, ignoring the thorns poking at his lungs.

"Had some things to take care of," he replies, fighting the urge to ease his tie.

Squalo hums, unimpressed, eyes still focused on his.

"Did you?"

Tsuna feels the way his insides burn; can tell the way new flowers bloom around his organs.

Meeting Xanxus always entailed drinking — drinking always entailed a much lower dosage of his suppressors. Now, he isn't sure he can make it out alive.

"Takeshi asked to give you this," he says, instead, ignoring the way Squalo's brows furrow. "He's on a mission."

Tsuna throws the small sac his way, watching as Squalo catches it with one hand, a quick once-over before his eyes turn to him again.

"Voi," his voice is lower than Tsuna's used to — still louder than most people would use. "I'm not about to stick my nose in Vongola's business, but you better start talking before Boss loses his patience."

Tsuna smiles, quiet.

"I'll keep that in mind," he finally responds, fighting the urge to swallow.

Squalo doesn't say a thing, turning on his heel.

Tsuna waits for a second, trying to get his breathing under control — it barely helps, but he feels good enough to start walking in the direction of Xanxus' room.

It's a gamble, the way he decides to come to Varia's base — he shouldn't, ideally; should distance himself enough to make sure that Xanxus never finds out. Tsuna thinks about it and finds that he would rather sell his soul instead.

It's complicated, what he and Xanxus have going on.

Tsuna loves his Guardians; would give his life up for any of them in a heartbeat. He loves other members of his family, loves anyone who belongs to Vongola; even loves those who don't, be it Uni or Enma.

There is Reborn, too, but Tsuna isn't trying to cough his lungs out, thinking of him.

Xanxus is different.

Dino is like an older brother to Tsuna; has been since they met, self-proclaiming himself as such without a hint of hesitation.

Xanxus is not like that — there were never any words or promises between them, never loud declarations of love or loyalty.

There were fights, Xanxus's back pressed to his, guns aimed at any opponent who tried to attack; there were long nights of drinking, empty bottles between them as Tsuna felt his eyes drop, utterly exposed for any attack — an attack that would never come, warm blanket or Xanxus' jacket over his body instead.

Xanxus felt like family. Not an assigned one; not one that ran deeper than human understanding, bonds and contracts formed the way he simply felt with his Guardians.

It was different. Xanxus felt less like destiny and more like choice, and to Tsuna, who had most things in life forced onto him, it meant more than anything else.

He takes a turn, hands already pushing the doors to Xanxus' room open.

It smells like alcohol and cherries, Tsuna thinks, stepping in. Xanxus doesn't open his eyes, fingers holding a glass of whiskey as he sits in his chair, feet up on the low table.

Bester is at Tsuna's feet before he gets a chance to say a word — he kneels down, palms on white fur, scratches at the spots that have the liger almost-purring. It is calming, until Xanxus opens one of his eyes, silently ordering them to cut it out — Bester frowns, one last look in Tsuna's direction before he leaves back to his place.

"Long time no see," Tsuna says, standing up.

His voice is more stable than he expects — he doesn't let himself get too confident, yet.

He walks toward Xanxus' couch, plopping down as he finally eases his tie. Xanxus doesn't respond, a slow sip of his whiskey.

"You lost weight."

Tsuna freezes, his heart skipping a beat for a quick moment — he smiles, then, attempting to regain control.

"You think?" he chuckles, back pressing against the cushions behind. "Reborn's been making me run around a lot, lately."

His throat burns at the mention of his tutor, a mistake so dumb he almost laughs — Xanxus seems even more annoyed, fingers around his glass gripping a little tighter. Tsuna feels the temperature in the room rise — he isn't sure if that's just his nerves.

"Bullshit," Xanxus says, burgundy eyes focused on Tsuna's frame. "He wouldn't have you looking this sickly, trash."

Tsuna smiles.

"You don't know him well enough."

Half-lie half-truth.

Tsuna watches as the glass threatens to explode, a warm-orange hue slightly visible in Xanxus' palms.

"Quit the bullshit, Vongola," he warns, his other hand too close to the gun strapped to his waist.

There is tension in the room; Tsuna thinks it's palpable enough for him to cut into tiny pieces.

He smiles, forcing his body to relax. Xanxus' eyes on his are heavy; burning in a way that mirrors the pain in his throat. Tsuna wonders if he can see the thorns that wrap around his lungs, squeezing until he can no longer breathe; if he sees the bloodied petals that do their best to get out.

"It's okay, Xanxus," he says, instead, looking to the side.

It's a cowardly gesture — one that Xanxus catches, his annoyance flaring up as the glass in his hand pops, shards and liquid covering the carpet and table in between them. Tsuna doesn't comment, trying to control his breathing.

He thinks of yellow petals and flames; he thinks of empty bottles and quiet words.

"Don't fucking play with me, trash," Xanxus growls, the scar on his left cheek larger than it was mere seconds ago. "You disappear for months, don't say a fucking word, and show up looking like you're halfway to your grave."

Yellow petals, bloodied and burnt.

"What the fuck is going on with Vongola if its young boss looks like he's about to die at any point?" he spits, burgundy eyes still focused on Tsuna. "What kind of reputation are you trying to upkeep, huh, Decimo?"

"This has nothing to do with the family," Tsuna cuts off, tired and annoyed in his own way. "I am fine, Xanxus, quit it."

There is a laugh, then — Tsuna's eyes snap to Xanxus, irritated, cold words on the tip of his tongue.

They get stuck in his throat, choking.

"You think I don't know what's going on?" Xanxus asks, quieter, his eyes on Tsuna's with despair that doesn't belong.

Not on Xanxus; anyone but him.

He thinks of yellow petals; his own threaten to spill out of him.

"You have the same look on your face as that woman did," Xanxus' voice cuts deep; leaves streaks of blood all over Tsuna's chest — manages to hurt more than flowers ever could.

Tsuna takes a breath, realizing he hasn't in the past few seconds.

It all comes out, then, two coughs until he can no longer stop — he hunches over, hands gripping his neck as the flowers leave his body.

There are petals between him and Xanxus — bloodied pieces on top of broken glass, full roses in different shades of his pathetic love — a horrible bouquet meant for a man who could never love him back.

Tsuna wonders if Xanxus hates it as much as he does; he wonders if Xanxus looks for yellow petals with dread somewhere deep in his chest.

"Turns out they meant jealousy and greed. That dumb woman managed to die more foolishly than she lived," Xanxus whispers, eyes closed, an almost-empty decanter by his side.

Tsuna wonders if his flowers are as horrid as Xanxus' mother's were — he wonders if Xanxus will also burn them down, together with Tsuna.

His steps are silent; slow tread down the corridor, flames of mist all around.

The door disappears as soon as it is in front of him, his body going through it without any sense of trouble.

About nine steps — still silent, but heavy — before he steps into the large bathroom that is connected to Tsunayoshi's room.

The mist that surrounds them is familiar, somehow his own and yet different, comfortable as it cloaks around his shoulders.

His eyes meet the dusk in depths of brown, breathing even. He doesn't let himself react in any other way — hides the edges of the mask in mist that is both his own and not.

Tsunayoshi doesn't say a thing, turning his head back around. He is hunched over the toilet, suit jacket haphazardly thrown in a different corner of the room, white button-up with specks of dark red.

Mukuro looks at the streaks of saliva and blood on his chin; ignores the flowers all around them — petals of different shades, all coated in red.

The metallic scent around them is so intense, even he feels an edge of something uncomfortable in his chest — then again, he would rather take that than a sickly-sweet tinge of roses.

Nagi is sitting on cold tiles right next to Tsunayoshi, her hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles.

Mukuro meets her eye, their communication completely silent — it's a good thing, the way they never needed words to understand each other. There is a mix of emotion there; he can only pray it isn't mirrored in his own.

"Did anyone notice?" Tsuna asks, voice hoarse.

His knuckles are white as he grips the edges of the toilet, droplets of red smearing one of the sides.

Mukuro watches, silent.

"Of course not," he responds, voice low, usual hurt theatrics pushed aside. "I'm the best illusionist in the world, Tsunayoshi-kun."

Tsuna nods, a tired smile — Mukuro doesn't remember ever hating anything this much.

Nagi doesn't say a thing, delicate fingers still on Decimo's back. Mukuro focuses on the movement, unblinking.

"You need to see Trident," he says, words heavy as they leave his mouth.

It is uncomfortable, the way he has to voice things that shouldn't be his business. He is not suited for this job, not meant to be Vongola Decimo's babysitter — it's supposed to be their hot-headed, puppy-eyed Storm; maybe even overly-optimistic Sun.

Not the Mist, meant to remain elusive.

Not Rokudo Mukuro, so set on being Sawada Tsunayoshi's personal demise.

He still speaks, confident, usual amused mocking stored away for a later date.

Because there are later dates in Vongola Decimo's life. Mukuro forces his mind to stop thinking.

"He will tell him," Tsunayoshi gets out, another fit of desperate coughing.

Mukuro watches as full-on flowers leave his mouth, burgundy, black, and purple mixing in; holds his breath, even if he feels his fingers twitch.

Nagi leans in closer, one hand snaking around to Tsuna's shoulder, holding it as she murmurs something that is meant to help him calm down. Tsuna nods, breath heavy, before he throws up another batch of bloodied petals.

"He won't," Mukuro says, voice colder than he expects. "You are hesitating because you know he will force you to get the surgery."

There is another fit of coughing, Tsunayoshi's shoulders sagging, his breathing almost wet as he hunches closer to the toilet.

He doesn't meet Mukuro's eyes — it is pathetic, the way Mukuro feels almost grateful.

"It is foolish, Tsunayoshi, the way you prefer death."

Nagi's expression hardens, her grip on Decimo's shoulder tighter.

Mukuro hates the words as soon as he hears them — a bitter hate, similar to the feeling of falling on one knee in front of Byakuran; despises the feeling of watching things unfold without having any power to prevent them.

Tsunayoshi is right there; so close that it would take only a moment to wrap his flames all around him, to surround him in an illusion sweeter than life could ever offer.

It would be easy, to seize him away; hide him in the depths so removed that even Vindice would never find him.

Mukuro wants to wrap his hands around Tsunayoshi's neck, shackle him in gold so vibrant, a gilded cage prepared for him alone — a perfect prison for the brightest star, so unsuitable for this corrupted world. He wants to take Tsunayoshi away, hide him from horrid flowers and bloodied tiles.

Tsunayoshi knows, somehow, ashen-brown melting into orange — Mukuro meets his eyes and feels the way his own throat tightens.

"It's my choice, Mukuro."

There is a moment of complete silence, Mukuro's lips forming a passive smile.

A puppet, meant to obey.

Nagi's head drops, a little, her own lips curling in a subtle way that tells Mukuro all he needs to know.

It is unfair, he thinks, the fate meant for the Mist.

To watch Sawada Tsunayoshi bloom, fourteen-year-old uncertainty and weakness transforming into a power capable of destroying the strongest opponents; to watch him smile, own feelings confusing enough that they feel like an unbearable weight in the middle of the chest; to watch him trust, opening up so easily like Mukuro isn't capable of stabbing him right through the heart at any second.

It is unfair, he thinks, the way Sawada Tsunayoshi forces him to fall in love.

It is unfair, he thinks, the way he has to watch him wilt.

He doesn't realize his phone is ringing until he almost misses the call.

Tsuna's fingers feel numb as he taps on the display, bringing it to his ear without even looking at the ID — just silently hopes that it isn't Nono or his no-good father. There is nothing on the other side, at first, until he hears the low timbre that makes him sit up.

"Took your sweet time," Reborn says, amused, his usual chaos lost somewhere along the lines.

Tsuna clears his throat, hoping it doesn't sound too out of place.

"Didn't expect you to call," he replies, honest, his fingers trembling as he pulls the glass closer.

His throat burns, sips he's taking worsening the situation even more.

"You always have to be unpredictable, Dame-Tsuna," Reborn continues, not privy to Tsuna's suffering.

It's poetic, in a way.

Tsuna hates every second of it.

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, "how's your mission going?"

He opens one of the drawers, flipping through documents until he reaches the secret compartment — pulls out medication, popping three capsules, swallows it down with as much water as he can force himself to down.

"Colonnello and Fon are annoying," the hitman says, voice bored. "Nothing new, though. I'll have to bring you here, eventually — there is a dangerous cave around; would be beneficial to your training."

Tsuna ignores the way his heart swells, a stupid smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he leans back.

"Yeah," he agrees, quiet. "That'd be nice."

There is a silence that lasts all of ten seconds — Tsuna doesn't catch it, at first, too busy thinking about the flowers blooming in his chest.

"What's wrong, Tsuna?"

He doesn't respond, confused. The prickling in his throat worsens, even after taking the medicine — he swallows it down.

"Nothing," he says, tapping his finger on the desk's surface. Reborn doesn't comment, probably too busy not trusting him. "Just... come back soon, okay?"

Tsuna feels the way flowers bloom in his chest, honesty entirely too deadly for him to allow. He still does, a complete fool — a personal executioner, too busy pining to realize how little sand he has left in his hourglass.

"I will," Reborn murmurs, "don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Tsuna laughs, ignoring the way his throat starts to hurt.

"I won't," he promises.

Not like he can do anything stupider than being in love.

"Is something wrong?" Sawada asks, entirely too calm.

Kyoya doesn't respond, sitting in a chair in front of his desk.

He feels a slight pang of annoyance, eyes on Sawada as he thinks of what to say. He hates the way he even needs to, in the first place.

Kyoya shouldn't be here; he is not the one to waste time with words, preferring to speak through actions — he is used to solving his problems through fighting, direct in his approach.

He doubts beating Sawada Tsunayoshi up would be of any help.

At first, he didn't even think his interference would be necessary.

He catches Sawada coughing up bloody petals in the middle of the night, arms gripping the kitchen sink, brown eyes lit up with so much panic he doesn't even move. There aren't any words between them, initially, until Tsunayoshi pulls it together, the sleeves of his shirt wiping the blood off his mouth.

"Don't tell a soul."

He doesn't. Keeps it in, occasional heavy glances at Sawada during the meetings, and doesn't even think about it.

Kusakabe wordlessly leaves folders on his desk, not questioning the nature of his request — Kyoya reads through every page, learning more about Hanahaki than he probably should.

They never talk about it; he never asks, knowing all too well — watching as Sawada smiles at his tutor, bloodied petals hidden behind a closed fist.

It's not Kyoya's place to speak; he thinks of the emotion somewhere deep in the usually-indifferent eyes, a slight edge to the voice known for its mirth — thinks of the trident to his neck, digging into his skin as he listens to words that shouldn't be said.

He thinks of the way he walks away, sparing Mukuro's pride — he doesn't need to see that, doesn't need to witness vulnerability usually kept away for people like Dokuro.

He finds himself in Sawada's office the very next day, trying to achieve something none of them can.

"He's coming back in a few days," Kyoya says, watching as Sawada's jaw tenses at the mention.

There is a beat of silence, silver clashing with dark-brown.

Kyoya wonders when he managed to lose that much light.

"I know," Sawada finally responds, slowly getting his words out. "Is there something wrong?

Kyoya doesn't respond — he doesn't know how to put into words exactly what he thinks.

There is a ticking of a clock; a not-so-subtle reminder of impending doom. Kyoya thinks he has no trouble facing death, ready to fight it if he must — Sawada's eyes tell him he won't even try, too ready to fall into the cold claws for something as ridiculous as a feeling.

"You're making it into a habit," he says, calm, eyes never leaving Sawada.

He blinks, head slightly tilted.

Kyoya thinks of the flowers in his chest — an undoing so ironic, Kyoya fights the urge to grit his teeth.

"What do you mean?"

He wonders if the bloodied petals are all that's going to be left — wonders if he would rather take the alternate universe, a gaping hole in Sawada's forehead from Millefiore's gun.

"Making me watch you die without interfering."

He finds Mukuro in his room, eyes mirroring the same emotion he feels inside.

"It is so pretty there, Tsu-kun, you should definitely come with us next time!" she chirps, her eyes on the stove. "We can even make it a family trip, like when you were a kid! Wouldn't it be great, all of us together again?"

Tsuna smiles, nodding.

Their kitchen feels smaller than it ever did, so different from Vongola's giant rooms. It's calming, he thinks, taking another sip of Mom's tea.

"Yeah," he says, fingertips brushing over warm ceramic, "that would be great."

Mom mentions another new detail of her trip with Iemitsu, happy chirping about the most basic things — Tsuna feels the slightest hint of annoyance, watching her be so excited about something she should've experienced her whole life. There is a quiet voice in his head, whispering that he can't trust his no-good father to take care of her when he's gone — he bites the inside of his cheek until there is a familiar taste of metal.

She hums some melody, slow steps around the kitchen as she gathers other ingredients — Tsuna watches her movement, thoughts about how little he paid attention his whole life.

How little he sat in the kitchen with her, talking as she cooked.

He's glad he decided to take the trip to Namimori — a rash decision, fueled by sleepless nights and nervousness over Reborn's return. He knows he'll have to leave tomorrow morning, getting back to Italy right on time for a family meeting — still, he is more than happy to be around Mom, even if it's for a few hours.

"Tsu-kun," Mom calls, eyes sliding to him in worry as she turns her head to look around her shoulder. "Have you been eating okay? You lost some weight."

He bites his tongue, smiling.

He thinks of Xanxus, then — of silence, of soaked petals on top of broken glass, of blood — wonders if he hates him, now. He thinks of the burgundy so rich he questions how a color that beautiful is even achievable — thinks of the way it burned right through him, hoping that none of it was true.

He thinks of the way he left, words too difficult for him to even say; thinks of how Xanxus must have felt, watching Tsuna throw up flower after flower, dying in the only way Xanxus would never accept.

How he feels, knowing Tsuna chose to die that way.

"I'm fine," he replies, taking another sip that burns his throat.

Mom doesn't push, her eyes back on the stove. He wonders how much she really knows, even if she never says it — not just about this, but in general.

He wonders when he started treating her the same way Iemitsu did.

"Hey, mom?"

Tsuna's throat hurts as soon as the words leave his mouth — not the usual burning he feels before or after every coughing fit, but completely different — and he fights the already-there dread sparking in his chest.

Mom turns around, a small smile as she waits for what he has to say — he watches the way her eyes shimmer with an emotion he can't exactly name.

"Would you ever hate me, if I did something you'd never forgive?"

He barely gets the sentence out, unable to talk without feeling like he's falling apart.

Mom doesn't respond, eyes soft as she shuts off the stove, slow steps in his direction.

"Tsu-kun," she says, her hands warm as she puts them on his cheeks, gently raising his head to look at her. "All I have ever wanted is for you to be happy and healthy, no matter what."

He nods, his lip curling as her finger brushes underneath his eye.

"I loved you before you were even born," she whispers, tears caught in her lashes, "and I will love you until the day I die."

There is wetness on the tips of Mom's fingers, desperate attempts at wiping his tears away.

Tsuna feels his shoulders shake, Mom's hands around his neck, pulling him closer as she leans in to hug him tighter.

"Shh, it's okay, Tsu-kun," her voice is barely above a whisper, wet sobs that betray her own crying. "You're okay. Mom is here."

He wraps his arms around her frame, crying into her shoulder, his tears soaking the material of her shirt.

Mom smells like home and flowers.

Not the bloodied ones that haunt him everywhere he goes; not the ones that spell out his pathetic love that does nothing but bring pain and suffering to the people he loves the most.

Mom smells like flowers that make him want to live; he wants to drown in that scent, remember it when he takes his last breath.

Tsuna pulls her closer, wheezing out broken apologies she doesn't understand.

He finds himself in Vongola's mansion the very next day, his flight back to Italy as comfortable as it can be.

There is an envelope in the drawer of his desk back in Namimori — a Sky flame bright at the very bottom, his signature stark against the white sheet. It doesn't explain much; doesn't even begin to make up for the pain he might cause — still, there are the names of his Guardians and family written in his messy handwriting, as well as the details of what he wants to be done with his body.

He hopes Mom can forgive him, eventually — wonders if she'll even see the document, considering Vongola's mark.

The body is the most he can give her, at that point.

He considered writing a letter — he scrapped the idea too quickly, unsure of what to say. He could write one to Mom, apologizing for being so stubborn; could write one for each of his Guardians, explaining what happened; could even address one to Xanxus, unspoken words that tug at his heart.

He doesn't write any of them.

"Welcome back, Juudaime!" Hayato blurts, straightening as he opens the door of Tsuna's car.

He smiles, tired and glad to see his Storm.

There is a feeling of guilt stuck somewhere in his throat, cutting similarly to razor-sharp petals — Tsuna swallows it down, uncaring at how much it burns his chest.

"Morning, Hayato," his Storm hands him some papers as they go, a quick explanation on what happened since he left.

Tsuna nods at his quiet words, eyes on the lines, tries to read through them, giving up as soon as words start to blend together too much — he thinks of the black letters against perfectly white paper; thinks of his sloppy signature in the bottom right corner.

They're in front of his office door before he even notices, Hayato's fingers on the handle as he opens it to let him in.

Most of his Guardians are in their seats, different levels of attention as they turn their heads. Tsuna notes the obvious lack of Mukuro, grateful and nervous at the same time; wonders how Takeshi and Ryohei are doing on their mission.

He catches black eyes staring at him before he even takes a step.

Reborn isn't supposed to be here yet.

Still, he's standing with his back to the wall, amused smile as he watches Tsuna's face.

The breath he takes is a little heavy, oxygen in his lungs burning as he feels the thorns dig in. Tsuna smiles, fixing his sleeve just to keep his fingers moving, opens up his mouth with words of welcome on the tip of his tongue.

There is something white in the corner of his vision; a pretty brightness that attracts his eyes.

He regrets looking as soon as he turns his head.

Innocence and new love.

The roses on his table are beautiful, he thinks, white petals so stark against the dark interior of his office. There is something angelic to them, color so pure, not at all corrupted by the crimson hue he expects. So bright that it blinds.

There is so much life to them; so much beauty that he could never even begin to grasp.

He feels it choking him.

The petals in his chest move, sharp edges right against the ribcage, slice with the same feeling as a knife on glass. Tsuna feels them claw up, feels the way they shift, desperate in their attempt to kill.

Same pure innocence so deadly inside of him; same pure innocence that was supposed to be his love for Reborn — existing only to end his life.

He looks at Reborn across the room, a breathtaking void coloring in a weird shade of desperation — he feels a laugh bubble in his chest, coming out as a cough. There is a quick movement to his left, Chrome's warm touch on his back — he doesn't realize he's hunched over until he hears her scream something out. He doesn't catch it, too focused on the way his vision blurs, tears dropping on the carpet right underneath.

He realizes that it is blood, coughing until he no longer cares.

Tsuna isn't sure what is happening around, only manages to hear the shattering of glass — he thinks someone opens the window, then, throwing something out. He wonders if he'll see the flowers again if he lifts his head — wonders if he'll see the bloodied petals underneath his feet if he finally opens his eyes.

He doesn't get to find out, feeling the way mist wraps around his form a little too tightly, indigo flames slowly transforming into blue — and closes his eyes, falling without a stop.

Tsuna doesn't know what he expects to see, opening his eyes.

It's a foolish wish, to see heaven after living as the boss of the biggest mafia family in the world — still, he finds himself thinking that hell is too dark of a place for someone like Primo. So, maybe, he also has a chance.

He smiles, knowing full well his relationship with luck.

He hopes heaven doesn't have any flowers; hopes to burn them in the flames of hell.

"You're awake."

He wonders if angels can have voices like that — he always thought Reborn's voice was closer to devilish seduction than any pure singing. Maybe, he is lucky enough to be stuck with that even in his death.

"Looks like the ceiling of my room," he rasps, eyes blinking open.

Reborn doesn't make a sound — he's almost hurt at the lack of amused huff.

"Tsuna."

He sighs, sitting up in his bed. There is a pounding in his head at the movement — he looks at the nightstand to his left, thankful for the cup of water at the very center.

His fingers are on the glass, wiping condensation around with his thumb as he takes a sip. It burns his throat more than he expects, but it also grants him the mercy of keeping quiet.

"Tsuna," Reborn says again, and he doesn't think he can keep wasting time.

It's a little ironic — he feels too tired to grin.

"Yes?"

Reborn doesn't respond, probably waiting for him to look up. Tsuna takes a breath, a small smile before he finally meets Reborn's eyes.

He hates the way it feels like every moment of suffering is worth it, falling into the endless void of Reborn's gaze.

"Just what did you get yourself into, this time?"

He feels the way his throat tightens, a warning of the inevitable to come — Tsuna brings the glass closer, small sips that buy him as much time as he can get.

"You know I can't say," he responds, another small smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Reborn stays quiet, his fingers digging into the forearm as he keeps his arms crossed. Tsuna takes another sip, feeling the way the petals wash down.

"Why?"

He laughs, then, a pathetic sound that has him biting his tongue to stop any coughing that threatens to come out.

Tsuna doesn't know what Reborn means.

Why can't he tell him the truth, lying in his bed after having coughed his lungs out?

Why did he never mention the garden that blooms on the inner side of his chest, roses colored in every shade that represents his foolish feelings?

Why did he lie for three years, slowly destroying his insides to the point that he doesn't know how much time he has left?

Tsuna doubts Reborn wants to know; Tsuna doubts he has an answer that would leave anyone satisfied enough.

It's a funny thing, Tsuna thinks, looking at Reborn.

He could probably get all the words out, stopping to cough here and there — could probably voice every little bit of his feelings, desperate to explain. He could try defending himself, try explaining that he is not a fool for sacrificing all there is just because he would rather remember.

He could try.

He doesn't.

It's a funny thing, Tsuna thinks, to love someone so viscerally that the idea of not loving them at all seems worse than death.

He tried putting it into words, tried to come up with explanations that could convince Xanxus that he wasn't throwing his life away in an idiotic gesture that didn't mean a thing — he gave up halfway, laughing in an empty office as he watched the petals cover his desk.

Reborn's gaze is heavy, a mix of emotions that somehow reminds Tsuna of every other person in his life — the same sense of disappointment and desperation that brings him closer to falling apart.

It isn't fair, the way he chooses to sacrifice himself; it isn't fair, the way people expect him to not.

There are words on his tongue, threatening to kill — he knows he'll die as soon as he voices them; thinks he'll die if he won't.

A stupid paradox; almost as foolish as the idea of loving so much that death doesn't even scare.

Then again, Tsuna always loved Reborn to the point where dying never mattered.

There are thorns in his chest, he knows; bloodied tips pushing against his lungs until he can no longer breathe.

Hanahaki is a terrible condition; he wonders if the garden inside of him will look pretty enough if they cut him open.

Then again, there is an envelope in the drawer of his desk back in Namimori that asks to burn it to ashes.

He thinks of how they're going to find it — wonders if his mom will be the first to discover it, unforgiving in her hatred for his stubbornness. He wonders if Xanxus will find it in himself to come to his funeral — if he'll hate him so bitterly he won't even show up.

He wonders if Hayato will forgive him; wonders if Mukuro, Chrome, and Hibari will ever admit to knowing.

It's ridiculous, the way he's willing to hurt so many people he loves — there is a hatred that brews in him, threatening to kill before flowers do it themselves.

Tsuna thinks of Reborn's eyes, endless darkness that leaves him breathless; thinks of nights spent underneath the clear starry sky, low whispers of stories; thinks of warm smiles that kept him going through any sense of pain.

Tsuna thinks of Reborn.

Tsuna thinks death is too little of a price for a chance to remember him in his dying breath.

He smiles, eyes on Reborn — there is a sharp movement, then, the hitman flinching before he takes a step closer.

"Don't," he whispers, eyes soft. "You don't want to see it, Reborn."

Not like either of them has a choice, he thinks, the tiniest bit amused.

Something is clawing at his throat, sharp edges cutting the inside of his neck until he can't take it anymore — he opens his mouth to the flowers that fall on the blankets in his lap, beautiful white completely corrupted by red. There is saliva running down his chin, mixed with so much blood he feels it soak the fabric of his shirt.

Tsuna looks up, eyes on Reborn's as streaks of blood run down, droplets hitting the blanket with a soft plop.

He thinks that meeting Reborn made life worth living, in the end. He thinks that breaking so many hearts is worth it, if he gets to remember.

Tsuna opens his mouth, a light smile tugging at his lips.

"I love you."