AN. I know, I know. I promised an M-rated fanfic, but I'm still rewriting the little bugger. The 18th time. Well, nothing much to say except that I'm going to be in high school soon. Also, those in Singapore, a warm welcome would be very nice, since I'm going there the entire holiday :D

On another note, this story has a different feel to it than the other stories. Instead of making you cry over there at the other end of this screen, I would prefer to dampen your mood a bit. The grammar might be terribly odd, so help me find the errors. It's rather inconsistent, I know.

I was going for the melancholy, lonely feel – so if you feel this fanfic is confusing or anything, feel free to tell me. Flames will be used to make a campfire with me singing 'Yo ho, Yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me' around it with a bottle of rum.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Katekyo Hitman Reborn. All belongs to Akira Amano apart from the plot.

Happy birthday, Rokudo Mukuro! May your evilness never cease to amaze.

MELANCHOLY SILENCE

He had died again.

And once again, for the eighth time in his life, he faces the same hopelessness that he had hoped he never felt again. The same exhaustion, the same fear, the same pain assaulted him in the way that seems too familiar for him to put his uncomforted mind to peace.

The Underworld was not the place of red that everyone had imagined. It is a colorless world where there is naught but heavy silence. Many come and are driven to death by their fear. In this world of nothingness, where you feel nothing, touch nothing, need nothing; your greatest enemy is nothing but yourself.

Ringing. A sharp, high pitched whine, and the horrifying images he had seen eight times before start again. Most of them were of Elena. Elena, staring at him with hate. Elena, dead. Elena, crying in someone else's chest.

Other were of the Vongola, destroyed, abandoned, disbanded, forgotten, jeered at, mocked…

He closes his eyes and shuts the ringing out with an almost practiced ease. The horrible noises stop, and he feels his mind settle. As he conjured up an image of lotus flowers, bobbing peacefully in a lake, he feels that he is way to good at this. It does not help his unsettled heart beat.

Escaping hell. Slowly, bit by bit. He trickles out of the vast void, bit by bit, and slithers into back into Earth.

Painfully… slowly… crawling…

However, one can never completely escape the Underworld. Never can you leave completely without upsetting the fragile balance between life and death. You cannot sever your ties with death without tearing a hole between two worlds.

… He extracted himself out of the misery that plagued him. It was slow going… very slow going… like a tiny snail, crawling up the well while gravity threatens to pull him down into the deep unknown below.

Slowly… burning… ripping… tearing…

What shall he leave behind this time?

He'd lost his eye, most of his senses, part of his conscience already. A bit of sanity, perhaps? Something more vague, such as what he left last time – Choice?

What else is left?

What else could he – would he – sacrifice for the Vongola?

It does not come fast. He runs through all his options, picks the better ones, and discards the rest. This method of elimination narrows down his search, and he picks one that he wouldn't bother missing, and severs the ties with a faint ripping sound that sounded more like ripping his own flesh than he likes.

All go into the familiar color of black.

-KHR-

The young boy with hair white as snow, cloak dark as the shadows, and eyes old as time itself sat quietly on the swing as the rusted joints creaked back and forth with much protest. From behind him came footsteps on the dead grass.

"You're back."

It took a while, but the answer finally came, "I certainly am."

A man with chocolate brown hair and caramel eyes smiled sheepishly. "That's great. I'm sorry about the sniper, but you certainly are getting too good at this."

The boy was still swinging, propelling himself with his feet, though they never left the ground. The man waited patiently for an answer. When you have all the time in the world, you are in no hurry. No hurry at all.

"Too good indeed." The boy finally muttered.

He received an award-winning smile. "You mentioned that you were bored, yes? It took us a while to find you a job that you would be interested in."

The cold heterochromatic eyes stared straight ahead. The silence stretched on for a long time. "I am not your errand boy."

The man nodded gently in understanding, but the edges of his lips curled in amusement. "No, you are not. I shall leave the file here, okay?"

Turning on his heel, he walked out the ring of dead grass. And was gone.

The boy waited for a long time. The air was still. Then, he stood up from the swing slowly and walked his fingers up the other one to grab the manila envelope that was sitting in the wooden seat. A sound of tearing paper ripped through the smothering silence.

The Mist Guardian of the Vongola stalked out of the ring of dead grass in a bright, sunny field. In the distance, the Vongola mansion gleamed with all its elegance and extravagance. The sun was high in the sky. Before it dips into the distant horizon, the Mist Guardian would be back.

But now he must get moving. Decimo has ordered a massacre, and he must be back in time to deliver his report before Sawada Tsunayoshi dines.

-KHR-

Red red red red red red…

So much red.

He loved killing. Daemon Spade had always loved killing when he first slithered back into the world of the living.

Blood blood blood…

Red paint. More paint. Paint. Kill kill kill. Brush swipe. Thrust. Brush stroke. Kill kill kill.

His spear arced through the air and severed several heads at once. All of them were dead before their scalps touched the ground and the crimson blood burst forth once again at the young child's feet.

Vongola's word was the law. He loved and trusted the Vongola more than anything else in the world – apart from Elena, before she died.

Spear stab. Spear swing. Bad bad bad. More red. Louder. Red red red red red…

-KHR-

"Papa." A young boy tugged at his father's shirt. "Why's that boy all alone? That boy, over there." He pointed out of the window and at the small ring of dead grass with the two swings and the reincarnation of Vongola's Mist Guardian. "I've been seeing him ever since I was here, but you never let me talk to him."

Decimo gave a melancholy smile at the innocent curiosity of his first-born. "Not many people can talk to him. He's special, see? You cannot understand nor accept him unless you know him well."

"Nu-uh." Shaking his head, Sawada Tsunayoshi's son gave Decimo an almost scolding look. "That's what you say. How many times have you seen a kid talk to him?"

Tsunayoshi flipped through the black locks as his son stared out the window at Daemon some more. "He doesn't talk much, either. He's seen too much, been through too much."

"He ain't any ordinary kid." The younger Sawada told his father.

"Because his hair is white?"

"No. Well, yes, the hair is a con-teri-buting factor, but he's a kid, but not a kid. He looks too old to be a kid, but he seems so young too."

"Contributing factor." Tsunayoshi corrected. "So he looks like his age is contradicting with his body?"

Though unable to understand the meaning of the long c-word, the boy nodded seriously. "Mhm, that's what I was goin' to say. Papa, let me play with him!"

"But –"

"Pwwwwwwease…" His son gave him the big pleading-eye look, and his father melted.

"Alright. But remember, treat him with respect and –"

" –Don't do anything rash." His son finished. "I know the drill."

"You'd better. Now run along. I give you until dinner. You can finish your work at night."

"Papaaaaa…" He whined.

-KHR-

"Hey."

The boy's pupils shifted over slightly, but otherwise showed no reaction to his response. He wore a black cloak, and beneath, a dirty white shirt and slacks that are too large for him.

"My name is Sawada Yomi. What's yours?"

The silence was deafening. The strange boy sat on the swing, and Yomi felt like he was talking to a mute. However, Papa said that he talked with him before, so he wasn't mute.

So Yomi waited.

Finally, the boy pushed himself forward a little, and the swing squeaked, like a mouse. Then he opened his mouth, and in a voice that was as raspy and dry as the ground beneath his bare feet, said, "Daemon. Daemon Spade."

Yomi smiled.

-KHR-

I was the first Mist Guardian of the Vongola, and I loved two things in the world: Vongola, and Elena.

Elena?

Elena.

From outside the ring, the grass swayed in sync with the wind. However, Yomi could not feel the wind on his face, nor hear the cries of the summer crickets.

Daemon had a faraway look in his eyes as he continued. Elena was beautiful. So beautiful she put the royal roses in the King's garden to shame. Her hair was of sun-spun gold and her eyes were of the sea, unpredictable and passionate. But like all beautiful roses, she wilted one day.

Oh. She died?

He nodded, his white locks falling into his two-colored eyes. Oh yes. She died. I was very sad. I still mourn for her. But I had to take care of the Vongola. I was the only one suited to be the Mist Guardian, after all, and my boss demanded my presence.

Boss? Wasn't it Vongola the First?

Mhm. He was a good man with a heart as soft as his hair, but knuckles of iron. Giotto was very, very powerful. He created the ultimate unbeatable mafia family, which nobody claimed to have existed until they tried to beat us.

Oh. He's a good guy, then.

There is no good an evil in this world. It's all a matter of perspective. There is only justice, or what the majority feels is 'humane' and 'correct', and there are those who oppose this justice for their own selfish needs. It doesn't make a whole lot of difference, really, since all that Heavenly Judgment and stuff about Heaven and Hell doesn't exist. You get the same treatment as everyone else after you're dead.

Then what happens if you die? In fact, what happened when you died?

Daemon stared into the distance. The dead grass on the ground beneath his bare feet seemed to intertwine where they met. Yomi pushed on.

You served Giotto, right? But how are you alive now?

If they were outside the cone of everlasting silence and stillness, they would have heard the crickets in the distance, singing their songs as the sun, once again, inched towards the distant horizon.

Heaven and Hell don't exist. Daemon finally repeated. There is only the Underworld. A colorless place. A place where you see nothing, feel nothing, need nothing. You are driven mad by fear. And then you disappear. That'll be the end of you. I escaped, though. I escaped this Underworld. But it cost me my eye. Daemon reached up and tapped the surface of his red eye rather roughly, which resulted in a slimy-sounding squelch from the back of his eye socket. Decimo's son wrinkled his nose in faint disgust at the action.

The melancholy silence stretched on. Yomi shifted from his position beside Daemon's swing. The black clock looked liquid from where he could see it. There were neither visible seams nor threads, just a solid black that shimmered in the dimming light of the sun. Mysterious, just like Daemon.

He loved Daemon's stories. Some days, Yomi would ask to hear Daemon recount old stories of the past. Memories. Other times, he would ask for Daemon to repeat the same old one, over and over. About how he died, and what he gave up in the Underworld, and all about Vongola Primo. Daemon would always tell him everything; no matter how long it took for him to open his mouth, Yomi knew that he would always get to hear the story in the end.

These were not fairy tales, nor myths. Those stories were real. They were alive. They were coming from a person who has seen much, felt much, suffered much.

One day, much later after Yomi first visited him, Daemon suddenly spoke on his own accord.

I died for Decimo twice.

Yomi was so startled he forgot to answer for a while. But the burst of initiative was gone as soon as it came.

My father?

Decimo. Sawada Tsunayoshi.

That's my father, yes.

When it is your time, then, you shall compete with all others candidates for the Vongola boss's seat. I want you to succeed.

Will you die for me, too?

Yes.

Are you willing?

Yes.

Did you feel the same with my father?

Yes. Exactly the same. He reminded me so much of Primo.

Was he nice to you?

Daemon looked out at the horizon. It was much, much later, after Yomi had decided that he did not want to answer the question, before Daemon finally answered, he is a good friend.

Why did you die twice?

I was killed by the Vindice once, after Tsunayoshi's victory over me had weakened me enough to be put in that dreadful place. They killed me, but I came back safe and sound, even if I did leave Choice in the underworld.

Choice?

I have no choice. I do what I am told by the Vongola. I can never leave. And I prefer it this way.

Yomi had a horrible thought. Is this why you have been answering all my questions?

A reluctant Yes.

Daemon stared unblinkingly at Yomi's expression and remarked, You look like Vongola Nono. He looked like that when I first told him that.

Decimo's son felt horrible. He was forcing answers out of someone who he felt was telling him on his own free will. It felt, frankly, like he was torturing someone for answers. At times, Daemon had looked so sad. So faraway. And he was making the man who never aged relive all that.

What did you leave for Papa?

Pardon?

In the Underworld. What did you leave my father?

Your father? Decimo?

Yes.

I… I left Choice. Choice and age. I trusted him never to violate my trust, and he never did.

What will you leave for me?

Daemon looked as uncomfortable as it gets. I… you are too young to be –

How far are you willing to go for me?

The illusionist of the Vongola, the Mist Guardian named Daemon Spade stared Yomi in the eye, and the younger boy felt like Daemon was staring right at him, not through him, like he usually did.

I shall leave Emotion.

He didn't speak again, just stared into the distant setting sun. The sun bled itself black, and Yomi stood up to leave again. Daemon did not stop him, just stared with those lonely, heterochromatic eyes into the distant horizon. The stars twinkled from above, like they always did.

The untamed fields tickled his bare feet and exposed skin as he walked away from the ring of dead grass that had been Daemon's home since he died for Decimo the first time. Yomi cautiously looked back, and saw the white-haired man, stuck in a child's body, swinging gloomily from the rusted playground swing.

"I'll be back!" He shouted.

Daemon did not acknowledge those words. He just kept on pushing himself back and forth gently. The seat next to him had ripped off its hinges, one chain already dragging in the ground. It was empty.

And forever shall be.