Title: B.V. (Before Varia)

Notes: This is a gen-fic centered around Fran's life before joining Varia (and a bit of it after his 'recruitment'). Any slashy implications between Fran and Mukuro are totally not intended. D: Mukuro just made it that way. Also, in case anyone is curious, my canon here is that there is a four-year age gap between them.

Disclaimer: Respective characters from Katekyo Hitman Reborn belong to Amano Akira.

xXx

Nine Years Before Varia

xXx

"Oh goodness, is this darling little Fran? Don't you just look adorable in your tiny suit! So handsome, yes! Come, come—give your dear Carmella a little 'ol kiss!"

"That would make your husband extremely jealous, Mrs. Vivado," Fran, aged seven, replied with a completely straight face, voice small and toneless. "I'd rather not start a feud between our families."

Mrs. Vivado gave a laugh, high and shrilly like the rest of her friends. "How wonderfully thoughtful of you," she said. And then to her friends, "Wasn't that just darling of him? And so smart, too!"

"Very much so! I heard little Fran here is quite the little genius, yes he is~"

"Do you know? He's in the same class as my Alexio, my twelve-year-old. And I keep telling that boy to study better so that he'll be like little Fran, but he's so focused on playing with those guys of his. Just like his father," Mrs. Vivado sighed dramatically. Then she ignored Fran's good-natured warning from earlier and proceeded to give him a lipstick-marked kiss on the cheek. "But you, you're so adorable, little Fran! And shhh, we'll just have to keep our little exchange a secret now, all right, little Fran?"

She winked, giddy, and finally left him alone.

He didn't wait for her to be out of his vision; Fran, lips forming a frown, quickly wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his black coat. He felt a slight pang of irritation directed at the man tightly grasping his thin wrist—even though the man, his caretaker, had clearly seen the disgusting mark, he didn't bother handing him a wet tissue or a handkerchief. He was more preoccupied in dragging and presenting his charge, as ordered by Fran's parents, to another group of old ladies that were equally loud and disgusting as they cooed at Fran and Fran's height.

Fran deepened his frown.

Staying in a corner would have been a more preferable position. There he'd be free to observe and mentally comment on how Mrs. Vivado's dress made her look like a big old snake, scales and all, and how Don Medici looked particularly lecherous (not to mention pedophilic) talking to the Tolentino's daughter in practically zero proximity with his smile broad and his eyes fixed on her barely-there chest. Alas, the caretaker had a vice-like grip on him.

Fran didn't fully understand why he was needed here, why he had to be towed so forcefully around. Weren't smelly, rambunctious brats discouraged from attending adults' events? Not that Fran fit into the categories aside from that of a brat's (the appropriateness of the term was also objectionable), but that wasn't the point. Kids didn't like boring parties and adults didn't like having kids to take care of when they had their fun. It was a fact.

If the event was hosted by his parents, he'd have understood but that wasn't the case for this party, this New Year's gathering. However, the guests were supposedly prominent people—though Fran knew who they really were and what they really did behind the facades of proud parents, aunts, uncles, godparents, grandparents, businessmen, government officials, and the like; they were Mafia, the fancy dressed, heavy-cologne-smelling people with wary eyes and manipulating smiles—and Fran needed to keep up appearances with the rest of them, his Mother told him. She didn't bother telling him why.

Earlier, when Fran implied his opposition regarding the topic of attendance with a tiny "I don't feel well enough to go, Father," his Father's cold, clipped reply of "The complete attendance of my Family is imperative, Fran," gave the young boy recollections of whimpers of protest and his Father's cane and his back. Fran had then slipped into his stifling black Armani suit without another word.

He didn't need to know why after all.

xXx

Fran got his chance to escape the caretaker's iron grasp when one fat lady decided she wanted to carry adorable little Fran. She lifted him as easy as though she was hefting a pillow and was particularly delighted when Fran made no fuss inside her arms. When she returned him to the ground after a gracious amount of cheek-pinching and kissing, he slipped past behind her and into the crowd, easing his way through completely unnoticed by his guardian.

Twenty-six minutes into hiding, Fran heard a "Kufufufu" echo under the grand staircase (i.e. his temporary secret base).

He looked around, squinting to see further into the shadows. Green eyes grew wide. There, seated a couple of feet away from him was a smiling blue-haired boy—and what an interesting haircut he had, Fran thought, sarcasm included—lounging as though he were on a plush sofa in the mansion's lavish drawing room instead of on the cold marble tiles underneath the dusty stairs.

"I don't mind sharing, but if you're going to make noises like that then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," whispered Fran as he curled his legs closer to his chest. If someone heard, he'll still be unnoticeable if made himself small enough. He had had enough of 'keeping up appearances'.

The other boy's smile grew wider. "I was here before you."

"No, you weren't. I checked." Fran decided that the boy's head looked like a pineapple.

"You did." Pineapple boy nodded, eyes twinkling. Fran saw them and wondered why they weren't the same colors. The red on his right eye looked pretty, though. "You didn't notice me, is all."

"Impossible," said Fran as he resisted the urge to pout. He outgrew pouting at age four, throwing tantrums at age five, thinking it would stop the hitting he got in retaliation for his any of his actions.

"I've been watching you."

"Are you a stalker?"

The hitting didn't stop. Fran had a vague idea that it never would and he learned to hold his cries of pain before he turned six.

"Hard not to notice you, don't you think? You're as inconspicuous as I am in terms of appearance, after all, Little One."

"You've been around Mrs. Vivado and her friends too much, it seems."

At six, he never noticed it anymore, the pain. All he had to do was use his mind, his will—it does not hurt, it does not hurt—to ignore the dull sensation as hand or rod made contact with his head, his back, his arms, his butt, his skin.

"Not at all. They were too scared to approach me."

"That's pretty cool."

Fran's mind was above standard; he had a high level of intellect. It came from reading, his tutor told his Mother once, and she merely nodded, simply voiced a 'hm' as she was more preoccupied with her nails. Fran didn't let it bother him and simply returned to his books (what his tutor didn't know was that he often read books on torture, on deception, on magic, instead of the classics he liked to recommend. Ah, but his real favorites were comic books and hero stories, which he read not for the cool protagonists, but for the villains who always seemed to have the greatest ideas). And he told himself the same things over and over again as he read passage after passage, manuscript after manuscript: a stronger mind, a stronger will, and a Fran that was less weak, less susceptible to pain.

Ignoring the pain was only a temporary relief, he knew that of course. He understood that fact better than any child his age or older, but temporary was better than anything, better than feeling the full brunt of the punishment.

"You might be able to do it, too."

"I can?"

Soon, ignoring the pain became insufficient. He had then taken to imagining ways to stop the hitting, to stop the pain (still imaginary, still fake, but he would tell himself it's still much, much better than not doing anything). He devised clever methods. Artistic deliveries. Cruel executions. Cold, cold, clean, precise deadly strategies—it made him shiver with excitement every time he concocted a new devious plan.

"Want me to teach you how?"

And the only thing he wanted more than anything was to bring his imaginations (his temporary, his fake solutions) to life.

Pineapple boy's offer rang in his ears, a melodious sound.

His mouth was straight, his voice monotonous and sounded like he could care less, but his dull green eyes betrayed Fran's excitement to the glimmering red eye.

"Yes."

xXx

A few months later, a party was hosted at their house, and as such attendance cannot be avoided. Not that Fran had bothered complaining anymore—his Father's hold on his cane was warning enough, reminding him of the grave offense he did when he fled from his caretaker and the consequent punishment dealt for his act.

So there he was, right in front of the same caretaker with the tight grip on his wrist, welcoming all the Families along with his parents and siblings at the entrance.

That was when he saw pineapple boy again, with the same weird pineapple head, the same mismatched eye-colors, the same wide grin. The back of Fran's palm itched. It wasn't like the itching he had from the bruises before. He wondered if it had anything to do with the other boy accidentally (or maybe it was purposely) scratching him at that particular spot before they parted last time. Maybe he had passed him some disease, but Fran's hair was still normally styled and his eye-color still matched each other and he didn't feel the urge to smile at something that wasn't even funny, so he figured it was just a coincidence and ignored the tingling sensation.

"Kufufu, a pleasure to see you again, Little One."

"I wish I could say the same."

"Is he a friend of yours?" his mother said, eyes cautiously inspecting pineapple boy. Did she know what he could do? Was she scared of him, too? Fran suppressed the shiver he didn't quite have from the thought.

"No," he said the same time as pineapple boy did.

His Mother blinked. "…Is that so... Well. Please enjoy the party."

"I will."

Fran had his second lesson once he, ignoring all possible penalties he might invoke, managed to escape his caretaker and the long, painted fingernails and rouged lips of the guests he had to greet. He almost broke into a smile when he found it so much easier to do now that he had been taught the basics of the ways of the ninja—his Master said something about the art of illusions, its core ideas, and how to use it on the weak minded, but Fran preferred to think of it as Ninja Lesson Number One since it obviously sounded way cooler.

"Kufufu."

For some reason pineapple boy beat him to his hiding place again, though this time Fran was able to spot him from his concealed position under the shadows of the shelves in the second wine cellar (and pineapple boy gave an almost condescending laugh when Fran mentioned it, though Fran saw nothing funny with it, as usual).

"Shall we begin, Little One?"

"Whenever you feel like it, Mukuro-san."

"No, no, no." Pineapple boy tsk'ed. "What did I tell you to call me?"

"Whenever you feel like it, Master."

xXx

After the party, he never saw pineapple boy in person again. The lessons continued though, and Fran never had sweet dreams ever since.

…Not that he ever did.