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"I think I'm in love with you."
It's hot in his office; in the entire mansion, really.
He doesn't notice the cold initially, doesn't pay it any attention — he is busy these days; busier than he has been in months, constant meetings and out-of-nowhere conflicts with other famiglias — but Lambo's shirts are weirdly buttoned-up to the very top, and he watches the way Futa rubs his hands together in the living room.
Now, every corner of Vongola's base is almost uncomfortably warm — or it should be, in theory.
He finds himself freezing, somehow, stuck behind his desk.
Ideally, he shouldn't be doing it like this; there should be flowers, probably, a good bottle of Reborn's favorite whiskey straight out of Xanxus' collection. He should be wearing a proper suit, not the one he's been in for the past seventy-two hours because of another emergency that Byakuran insisted couldn't be dealt with without his help.
Ideally, he should be happy kind of nervous. Instead, he grits his teeth just to stop them from clattering, shaky hands on top of his lap.
"You think."
"I know," he corrects, voice too loud.
The words feel like they're ringing in his ears, every sound grating right against his nerves. His chest is suddenly too tight and too hollow — he takes a breath as quietly as he can, feels the way it burns in his lungs.
It's almost amusing. Except it really isn't, and he is panicked enough to the point of passing out.
It shouldn't be this way, he reminds himself, but that is probably something he should've thought of before opening his mouth.
There is a low hum in response, thoughtful and empty. Devoid of any emotion, completely feigned — in theory, the same as Mukuro's; in practice, soul-wrenching to the point of digging nails into the palms of his hands. His own comparison feels like apples and oranges, except it shouldn't really be that way, and his nerves are so reminiscent of an exposed wire that he doesn't have it in him to keep thinking for more than a second.
"You know you're in love with me," matter-of-fact; bland; lacking.
Tsuna takes a breath and fails almost as miserably as possible.
There is something to the words; to the way they come out. He knows when Reborn wants to be condescending, knows the way poison tastes whenever he offers it, mixing it in with words that should sting but never do — this is different, completely empty, as if giving Tsuna even a little bit, even a single letter laced with emotion is too much.
"I do," he offers, trying to sound as confident as he can.
Which isn't much, he thinks, when there is a ticking of a clock echoing in his ears, a low whisper of you messed up that he has never heard before.
It all feels like a gamble, except he knows the result before even betting — not thanks to the Vongola bloodline, this time around, but something completely different. It makes him sick.
The ticking is louder, then, a time bomb set to detonate in a near future he can't predict; he isn't sure if he would rather just explode or keep trying.
"Okay."
Still not looking; still indifferent.
Tsuna isn't sure what he expects. Can't explain what he feels, his emotions as if on a standby.
It is hot in his office, but he thinks he's slowly freezing to death.
Reborn doesn't seem to be affected. Sits on the couch, eyes focused on the paper in front of him, takes occasional sips of his espresso. It's poetic, Tsuna thinks, one step away from breaking apart.
Reborn is cruel; Tsuna knows it entirely too-well, sees through the facade that was built throughout the years — he is softer, he knows, less harsh than what was there before, be it the age or the people around him. Still, Reborn is a merciless creature; he hears it from Shamal once, the doctor entirely too drunk, watches the way Bianchi elbows him with a look in her eyes that betrays the truth — Tsuna knows.
He knows, but still chooses to accept. It's not even a choice, if he's honest — there is no other option, never was and never will be.
Somehow, this feels like going overboard. He feels like he's getting more than he really bargained for.
He isn't sure what makes him feel this way, isn't sure what he was thinking. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, a moment of weakness that he didn't account for. He wasn't expecting anything — still, he feels let down. As if his Intuition, for the first time in years, managed to fail him.
Then again, it's not like Reborn reciprocating his feelings was ever on the table. He feels like he's about to throw up.
"Just 'okay'?" he mouths, voice the complete opposite of what it was a mere minute ago.
It feels like he's holding onto something that slowly keeps slipping away — he tries to clench his hands, but the cold is seeping so deep that he can't even move his fingers. So pathetic it makes him sick.
There is a pause; Tsuna isn't sure if it exists outside of his mind. He isn't sure he's even in the room anymore; isn't sure if he's silent or not. It all seems to spin and stop at the same time — his throat burns, eyes completely unfocused. Somehow, he still sees Reborn — still not looking; still indifferent.
"Give it some time," he says, completely calm. His eyes are the usual majestic black — Tsuna wonders if they were always this cold, before. "It will pass."
It feels like a knife twisting right in Tsuna's gut; there is blood on the fabric of his shirt, soaking the material until it can't take it anymore — everything is suddenly the same shade. He takes a look down and sees nothing — it manages to hurt a little more than it should; as if physical pain would make this better.
It would make it more familiar, he thinks, physical wounds much easier to deal with than whatever is happening to him now. He swallows and thinks he's choking on nothing.
He wishes Reborn had just told him off; said that there is nothing between them outside of this messed-up mentorship; had it in him to at least take Tsuna seriously.
He wishes Reborn had looked at him at least once.