silent

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The mafia is cruel.

And Tsuna—

Dame-Tsuna.

Useless-Tsuna.

No good-Tsuna.

Selfish-Tsuna.

Kind, kind Tsuna.

He is the heir to the bloodiest one of all.

He has fought Xanxus.

He has won.

Everything's fine.

So why?

Why does it hurt?

Why does he feel like he's crumbling?

Bit by bit.

Piece by piece.

_____

(To use your Dying Will, you must regret.

If that's the case...

Then the stars won't take me.

Not just yet.)

_____

Tsuna wonders, very briefly and almost cynically, if Nono had broken anything the moment he had placed that single flame-lit finger on his forehead and unsealed his flames.

Because every part of him hurt.

Ears ringing at the slightest sound.

Eye burning with an intesity.

He itches at the slightest movement.

And then... the worst part.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

In the midst of it all, the steady beat of his heart.

Pained and bruised and weary.

Ruined.

And it's excrutiating.

The realisation of how lonely it all felt, that when Tsuna listens, fingers grasping at frayed edges and the patchwork of scars.

He wonders just how long will it stay in one piece.

How much time will he have left?

How much time will he lose?

And it's retribution, of course.

A punishment for forgetting his curse.

A divine karma for toying with the fickle laws of this universe.

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