A/N: A KHR fanfic. When I have 20+ Naruto fics that are unfinished and unpublished. Ahahahahaha. *throws confetti and glitter with a straight face*

*OOC: Note that this Tsuna is OOC. We wouldn't know for certain, considering TYL Tsuna is literally given about 5 seconds of actual airtime; this is just my take on how Tsuna is ten years later, added in with the fact that he lost his whole famiglia. (Yes, it's one of those time travel stories—"oh no, I lost everything and am now in the past where everything/everyone is back but they don't know me, I'm so sad." Cliche, bland, typical—whatever you want to call it—but I wanted to.)

*Canon Divergent: I have not gotten far in KHR. I just finished the Kokuyo Arc in the Manga, and all the rest of my knowledge is from wiki and various other fanfics. Feel free to point out discrepancies that directly conflict with canon, but note that there will be a few that are purposeful for the sake of this story. I've also taken liberties with the concept of flames and use.

*Romance: This fic is Gen. There are no planned pairings, and I don't think I have to warn about any subtle romance either (because even though there are a few pairings I like in the KHR verse, I don't see myself writing them in this story). So, no pairings, I will not accept "requests" for certain pairing-ish interactions. Still,any implied romance/relationship that makes itself known will merely be background noise to the purpose of the story. Especially because all of the main characters, barring Tsuna and Reborn, are like… Children, mentally.

*WARNINGS: Potentially graphic depictions of violence in this story; possible triggers. There won't be much, but there will be blood, battles, pain, and varying/questionable introspection. I'll put up a warning at the beginning of chapters I think may make some readers queasy.

[Chapters will vary in length, anywhere from 2k-8k with the occasional breach. Generic time travel fic is generic; I haven't seen many KHR time travel fics though so I figured "why not." A/Ns will NOT be this long, I am just getting most of the necessities out of the way.]

Cover art by me. I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

Chapter 1

The sky is a stationary existence.

It does not move, it does not shift—and yet it is always there, omnipresent while fixed.

It does not need to move, for it is as untouchable and untraceable as it is far-reaching.

It does not need to seek out it's guardians, for it's guardians shall come to it. It need only wait for them to arrive—for its storm to swell, for its sun to rise, for its cloud to drift by, for its rain to cleanse, for its mist to shroud, and for its lightning to crackle.

Where the sky exists, the guardians gather.

The sky does not move, it does not need to.

For the sky is their home. Where the sky exists they will gravitate naturally by instinct to join their sky.

And it is necessary. A lonely sky's attributes necessitates this natural order.

Deeper and far more vast than the ocean.

Quieter and far lonelier than a stilled lake.

All bright hues and whistling winds, but devoid of a forest's life.

All-seeing and ever present, yet intangible and forced to play the role of the quiet spectator.

Until they come. And they will.

Because while a sky becomes little more than a void without its guardians, the rest simply do not exist without their sky.

As long as the sky remains, the guardians will gather.

Without fail.

His lungs, raw and battered, burn with each lungful of acrid smoke inhaled.

(Why was he still breathing?)

His legs, one half-torn apart, the other littered with minor fractures, groan under his weight with each laborious step he takes.

(Why was he still walking?)

He keeps one hand—his left, to free his primary—on his midsection, a weak sun flame flickering intermittently.

(Why was he still fighting to stay alive?)

Blood spills from his lips as he silently works to staunch the flow, and a violent cough tears through his battered body.

They're dead, he thinks. Knows. Because it is due to what he had seen that left him in such a state to begin with.

(Their hands interlocked, their faces unrecognizable because of the burns and the carnage and he is missing his legs—but it is undoubtedly them, their bond is palpable even in death—)

Even though he was a clumsy, awkward-footed child before, he is no longer the same. He stopped, matured, changed, and became one worthy of his title.

(—Silver glinting in the roaring flames, dented and worn and decorated in blood, so much blood that is seeping from the weapons' wielder just a few feet away whose not so much a singular person anymore so much as two separate parts now—)

He had long since claimed many rankings, and he was—is—no longer one to be fooled or surprised by the ill-planned.

(—He's missing his arms, the arms that he used to pursue his dream, to heal their comrades, to challenge the world—he's missing his arms but he is surrounded by the bodies of enemies and he did his best which gives a painfully vindictive respite—)

But seeing his family in the aftermath slowly, but surely, breaks down his years of change.

(—Black, unruly hair, matted by sweat and blood and electric-green eyes stare off into the distance unseeing, blinded for all eternity, because the bastards beheaded him and he was just a child—)

Because it was with them that he changed to begin with.

(—A smile, the same one he always wore, but peaceful and so painfully accepting as he lies there, his own sword buried in his stomach to the hilt and he is smiling even in death—)

Because seeing them, the people he loves, would die for and die again, strewn about the battlefield as corpses, or worse—

(—All that is left are various blood splatters across the desolate crater, and he definitely got them all, it hurts, it hurts knowing that his existence is wiped out unjustly—he didn't want to be forgotten, he never wanted to fade into the background again—but he didn't go alone and that's what matters—)

—It eats at him. It slowly kills him, an agonizing progression. He pays little mind to the non-life-threatening injuries and gives the bare minimum of attention to the fatal wounds.

(He can almost hear his Storm fussing over his injuries, exclaiming in overly-loud tones about his lack of care of his well-being, his Lightning attempting to help and falling into a predictable argument with the other, his Sun offering his extreme help, his Rain laughing but giving him that look that spoke volumes, his Cloud all but demanding him to let them fuss over him because he said so, and his Mists quietly observing from the corner and placed at just the right vantage point to detain him if he so chooses to abscond.)

But he doesn't. Because they aren't there, the Vongola Mansion has been burned to the ground, all of it's inhabitants and followers—save for one person—gone with it.

(So why? Why is he still going?)

Because he knows better than to simply give up, despite how much he yearns to. He is more afraid of the thought of meeting his disappointed family in the afterlife than continuing on.

(His family, blood or not. The Varia, CEDEF, the Arcobaleno, his Guardians, Reborn—)

But he has already paid them back, tenfold. On the very night of the attack, of the death and loss of the rest of his family—revenge was exacted. Not a soul exists in the barren wasteland, and he is the only one left.

Another coughing fit ripples through his body and he collapses with a quiet, disagreeing hiss, clutching hopelessly at his reopened wound. He has used up all of his flames, and it is only a matter of time that he either dies of exsanguination or flame depletion. He knows this.

And for all that he has cowered and shied away from it in the past, the idea of "death" is a strangely (morbidly) pleasant one.

With more willpower required than he expects, he shifts from his place on the ground to face the darkened sky. The stars are invisible, their own sparse lights overpowered by the flaming inferno surrounding him.

He can't even remember the sequence of events that led up to this. His exhaustion and the looming threat of death, waiting to claim his life, shroud his thoughts and mind like an impenetrable mist.

He takes a moment to reach for his flames, mere sparks of their normal grandeur, and a faint clarity returns to him once more.

He knows that the Vongola had been in good standing with practically the entire Mafia world—he had worked for that acceptance, those alliances, and eventually those tentative friendships—and even the few families that held a grudge or two had little reason to outright attack them. Even less so with he and his guardians being known as the strongest fighters in the Mafia.

White hair. Chocolate brown eyes blink slowly, fighting away the darkness creeping slowly into his vision. Byakuran, he silently thinks. And Kawahira.

He doesn't know why it—they—come to mind, but he doesn't like how his intuition, usually a steady hum in the back of his mind, is all but singing as he thinks about them.

How? Why? Are they involved? Where are they? Are they alright?

Two tentative bonds. One with a rising Sky, a friendship that isn't quite friendship but close enough for them to relax in each other's presences. It makes him think of marshmallows and witty banter, somewhat forced when centered within the wary, distrustful gazes of those that had seen the future. The other bond is with a man of secrets, who reveals little on himself and somehow knows everything about everyone else. Tsuna thinks of tea, of quiet contemplation; an observer.

They are involved, somehow. And he wants to know, feels like he needs to know. Because what if—what if they are directly involved with them, what if, somehow—

He takes a wet, shuddering breath, careful not to aggravate his injuries further. His racing thoughts slow down, still, and he resigns himself.

… But it doesn't matter anymore.

He closes his eyes, and smiles. It is the first time he has done so in weeks. Maybe months.

And he smiles because he has, despite it's short end, lived his life to the fullest. He has done as much as he can, and even though he knows the Mafia world will likely be in tatters because he never exactly created a back-up for the back-up of his back-up plan in the event something happened to him (Gokudera, Xanxus, and Reborn were dead after all), he cannot bring himself to mourn for the fact.

Because he is going to die. Because he killed them, every last one of them that dared attack his family. Because his journey is over, and he will not fight the inevitable.

Because he is going to see his family again.

The pain he felt at their losses slowly mends at the thought, and he draws in his last breath.

And it is on the eve of October 14th, aged twenty-four, that Vongola Decimo Sawada Tsunayoshi quietly passes away.

Ten years in the past, the air stills entirely.

It is day in Italy, and a young, up-and-coming hitman blinks at the splintered crack on his frames that appeared without reason. A young child with electric-green eyes blinks blearily in his room, wondering what woke him from his nap. A teen with discolored eyes lifts his head from where he is seated and peers up at the door.

It is evening in Namimori, Japan. A young baseball prodigy stares at the remains of his chair that had inexplicably collapsed from underneath him. A passionate boxer stares out of his bedroom window with an uncharacteristically wan expression. A quiet girl looks up from where she is sitting on the floor, tending to her wounds. A prefect narrows his eyes on the cracked teacup that splintered within his very hands.

In Namimori, just outside of the Sawada residence, the quiet of night takes on an eerie, ominous aura. Stills.

The wind slow to a stop, the sounds recede, and life pauses in an almost breathless beat of silence. Anticipation.

Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

(For what?)

Hauntingly glowing eyes snap open.

And the world bursts into a fierce firestorm of flames an orange hue.

A lonely, broken Sky. Shattered remains that just barely hold together. Weathered, strained, and weakened.

But a Sky nonetheless.