Title: a world of shadows and fire

Author: TripOverFlatSurfaces

Summary: "It was only when Reborn came that Tsuna finally felt like he was truly awake."

Warnings: Could induce depression (hopefully temporary) in the reader as it sort of did in the author. And maybe clichéd writing… =_=

Disclaimer:I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! as it is the property of Akira Amano.

A/N: My random angst ramblings(?)

Dreams are terrible, dangerous and fickle things, capable of both ruining a person and saving one in the same instant. (a dream is an illusion, and illusions can kill. slowly slowly, rotting away at the insides) Human perception is so easily altered (so easily crushed); one word, one gesture, one thought is all it takes. You forget, you remember, and in the end everything becomes irrelevant. Sawada Tsunayoshi, useless as he is, knows this better than anyone.

The dreams (the nightmares) start when he is nine. Tsuna is young, impressionable; he never fails to wake up thrashing, tangled up in bed sheets, the sweat plastering strands of hair to his cheeks. Worst of all (or maybe it's for the best) he can't remember what any of them are about. There are hazy spider-silks of course, as every forgotten dream has, and sometimes when he's not thinking about them, bits and pieces float forward.

At first, Tsuna tries to reach out to and grab those small snatches of memory, but the harder he strains, the faster the bits and pieces fall through his fingers. (he thinks of a sandcastle on the beach, back when he didn't have to worry, and the way the waves washed it out to sea) He learns, eventually, not to bother and just to lie back, letting the grains fall where they please. It doesn't compile into much; there's screaming, begging, and blurs of people (blood), but they tell him nothing. (he wants to know, he really wants to, but a small corner of his mind thinks that it might consume him once he does)

The dreamnightmares only get more vivid as time goes on. Tsuna starts to recall the smell of gunpowder, the gritty feel of it on his hands (since when has he ever come across gunpowder? nobody he knows carries a gun) and the way adrenaline pulses, throbbing underneath his skin (the feeling of dying and sudden clarity). There's the vile stench of something (someone) burning.

And he mustn't forget the people. The people are important. Those blurry faces and silent voices are important and Tsuna knows that he should know (he should absolutely completely and it feels like betrayal when he can't) He's taken to calling them by the colors that always swirl around them.

Red is protective and hot-tempered, Blue is tranquil with the sharpness of a blade, Yellow is almost blinding in its brightness, Green is a paradox of childishness and maturity, Purple is aloof and vicious, and Indigo is a terrifying mass of sadistic glee and hatred. (despite the fear in his waking moments, in sleep Tsuna loves them all anyway. in sleep, he would die for them. he opens his eyes and the feeling is gone)

Remembrance, though, is as treacherous as the dreams themselves are. Each time, a little bit of Tsuna leaks away and more of something else leaks through (it hasn't consumed him, not yet. but he knows it's only a matter of time)

He forgets.

It's only small things in the beginning. Things like where his clothes are or what he had for breakfast the day before yesterday, and where in the world did his homework go? Tsuna isn't known for perfect memory, nor are these things particularly important to him, but the strange gut feeling he sometimes gets curdles (he's teetering dangerously close to the edge, and Tsuna's afraid that one day, he'll fall and there will be no way back)

His mother has noticed too.

"Ne, Tsu-kun, are you alright?" A strand of brown hair falls across equally brown eyes and Tsuna notices how withdrawn and pale she looks. His father, he remembers, has left again. A burning spark of hatred ignites. (the flicker of orange flashing through his eyes goes unnoticed by both of them)

For his mother's sake, Tsuna turns and brightens (he's getting better at faking) "I'm fine, Mama. Just worrying about school. The teachers give way too much work!" The woman smiles a little at the complaint, but she still looks uncertain.

Tsuna tries again. "Mama, do you want me to help with dinner today? I don't understand the math problems anyway." This time, she really does smile and gently tells him that he should go finish his homework, because doesn't he want to get a good grade on the next test? There's some life that's been injected back into those eyes, and Tsuna finds himself unable to refuse.

He goes upstairs, sits down in front his homework, and resigns himself to failure, because really, what's the point anymore? No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much effort, the result is always a whirl of scorn and disappointment. All the same, there are brown eyes, there's a smile, and so bony fingers pick up the pencil.

….

The swings creak noisily, their chains already decrepit and rusty. Tsuna figures it's only a matter of time until they finally break. But he feels like taking a risk today, even if it doesn't seem like much, and maybe he will fall and maybe it will hurt (maybe the pain will wake him up. maybe this all just in his imagination. there are too many maybes to be sure of anything anymore). Plopping down on one carelessly, the metal groans ominously. It doesn't break the way he hopes it would.

He swings aimlessly, kicking his legs in a half-hearted manner. The creaking of the metal raises to a shriek, but Tsuna ignores it. There is no one else in the park to complain about the noise, in any case. The juice that was in his lunchbox is now in his hair and starting to clump brown strands together into sticky tufts. The rest of his lunch is smeared on the ground somewhere in the schoolyard. He tries not to think about it.

The air is cold and crisp, as it always is in the beginning of winter and the end of autumn. He breathes in deeply, once, just to feel his lungs burn with the aridity. The bright, bright blue of the sky burns too, so brilliant a color that Tsuna stares until he can't take it. His eyes water, so he blinks, but instead of banishing the feeling, the moisture swells and drips two wet trails down his cheeks. He's not crying, Tsuna tells himself firmly. Water continues to stain the leg of his pants, darkening the fabric in a pattern of spots. (denial, like faking, is a skill that improves with practice)

When he goes to sleep that night, he dreams some more. The lines of reality blur.

….

Straining hands miss the ball again. His momentum carries him into the floor and Tsuna lets out a cry of pain as he skins his knee. His teeth clench, forcefully suppressing the frustrated scream that is clawing its way up his throat. He forgot. Again. (he forgot that he's only a child. that his arms are only so long. he is used to being taller) The team he is on groans in disappointment before delegating clean up duty to him as they run off. This has become the habit of every team that is unlucky enough to receive him as a member. Tsuna takes the broom they shove into his hands with a grimace and sweeps with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The trip back to his classroom is quiet.

They catch him during break. "Dame-Tsuna! Dame-Tsuna!" The chant rings in his ears and his knuckles whiten as they clutch the edge of the desk. Tsuna's classmates, the boys at least, have formed a tight circle around his seat. They are vultures and he is the mouse. Tsuna trembles and fixes his eyes firmly on the scratched wooden surface in front of him.

"Hey, why are you so useless?" One boy asks mockingly.

"Yeah, why are you so clumsy? Huh, Dame-Tsuna?" All the boys snigger like it is the funniest thing they have ever heard. He only tries to shrink further into himself, the instinctual defense in order to present a smaller target. They loom closer, blocking out the pale artificial lights overhead. His breathing speeds up and he can feel a panic attack threatening to overwhelm him. Their laughs echo in his head until they distort into deeper, harsher voices and childish smirks melt into cold sneers and razor-sharp smiles. Everything wavers, oozing into something darker as the dim light, shining in between the eaves of the houses along the narrow cobblestone street, glints off the metal of their guns―

His chair screeches as it slides backwards. The boys are only boys again, not dark, looming figures. The class stares, taken aback by Tsuna's uncharacteristic display of aggressiveness. In the silence, he becomes hyper-aware of every small sound from the click of a pencil dropping to the floor to the ticking of the classroom clock, each thunderous to his ears. The familiar warmth creeps up his neck and flushes his face.

Under the other children's heavy gazes, Tsuna turns and bolts out of the room. No teachers come looking for him (he is not in a hurry to experience that incident again either), so he goes home early.

recently, it's been harder to tell what's real and what is not.

….

He has come to realize that he can no longer function in normal society. School, instead of being a routine, is his personal hell on earth. His peers jeer at his weaknesses; not even the kindest person, like the school idol Kyoko-chan, will come to his defense. The teachers have long since marked him for failure and are unsympathetic to his struggles or pleas for help. He can never finish his homework correctly, nor keep up in class, not even in gymbecause he is haunted always, always, always, and theytheimages just won't leave him alone―

No one else knows what he sees, and he will do whatever he can to keep it that way. It is only a small comfort that at least his dream-people―they are real, were real that small corner of his mind insists― make sure he is not completely alone. It is for them and his mother that Tsuna continues to get out of bed each morning. He feels so tired and defeated…so old. He wonders if there was a time when he felt anything else. He cannot remember.

They were supposed to write the yearly obligatory essay on what they want to be when they grow up yesterday in school. The ones that were read aloud were full of bright, shining hopes. Tsuna's paper stays blank, except for the title: 'What I Want to Be'. He does not know. Maybe he did once, but it is gone now. The essay is handed back with a zero marked in red.

….

He paused, standing solemnly near the burnt remains of what was left of the orphanage. The smoke seared his lungs and smarted his eyes, but he did not move. His friend stood behind him, just as silent, their own mourning ritual.

"…," he said softly, breaking the stillness. No sound was heard, but he felt his lips move―there were never any names, only muffled words where they should be―

"Yes, …?" his friend―it was Red, only younger, Tsuna was sure― answered.

"I'll get," his voice wavered, "I'll―I'll get stronger. Then I'll make sure that this will never happen again." He spun around to face his friend. "I'll get strong enough to protect this town, and everything that's important to us! I swear it on my life!"

He held out his hand, eyes burning with determination. "Will you help me?" Red looked at him, at his hand, and at what used to be their only home. His jaw tightened. Coming to a decision, he grasped the extended appendage firmly.

"Always."

….

Tsuna drifts through life without aim. 11, 12, 13, 14… he barely notices the passing of each of his birthdays. Nothing changes. He continues to fall deeper into the world of shadows and fire―what he predicted at nine is coming true, and it's horrifying that he cannot bring himself to care―but not far enough that he neglects to show his mother only the aspects that will not worry her overly much― 'overly much' because no matter how hard he smiled, 'not at all' was too much to ask for. mothers just know―

Then a flyer comes in the mail.

And with it comes Reborn, who unceremoniously shoves his way into Tsuna's world. Without warning, Tsuna is pulled headlong into the real-world, the world in which people with friends, people that look forward to each day, people that are happy, exist. The dreams stop.

Sawada Tsunayoshi, age 14, finally wakes up.

A/N: So, in the end, what was the purpose of this, you ask? The correct answer would be, HELL IF I KNOW. I was just milking the angst bubble for all it was worth and then some, which basically translates to "this is really forced and not a natural progression at all". Haha, oh well. I think it turned out as something that's at least under the category of not-completely-horrible. Next to work on is Normal is Overrated…