Elysium Chapter 1: Germinate, a katekyo hitman reborn! fanfic

Germinate - "to start to grow from a seed or spore into a new individual."

Poem by Emily Dickinson.

I hide myself within my flower,

that wearing on your breast,

you, unsuspecting, wear me too—

and angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,

that, fading from your vase,

you, unsuspecting, feel for me

almost a loneliness.

- With a Flower

"Haven't you noticed that Okada-sensei has been acting strangely lately?"

"This is her third time... if she shows up late again, they'll fire her for sure."

"Cut her some slack, guys; I heard her mother died recently."

"Really? I heard that she'd just gotten divorced. Looks like she isn't taking it well..."

The students whispered amongst themselves, rumors accruing like unpaid debts—endlessly. Amid the buzz, a slight breeze stirred, inviting a flurry of cherry blossom petals. A few girls shook the petals out of their hair, but the male students remained largely indifferent to the season and its trademark.

Kurokawa Hana knew for a fact that none of the rumors were true.

For one, the homeroom teacher still wore her gold wedding ring. Okada-sensei was frank to a fault, and Hana could not imagine the practical woman pining over the past, if the divorce rumor held an ounce of truth. Something had to be said for the dark pools beneath her eyes, but a deceased mother could not be the case—the class trip to Namimori shrine on New Year's Eve had convinced her of that. Okada-sensei had thanked the spirits for keeping her mother in robust health. If her mother had abruptly died, the woman would have, at the very least, taken a few days off, even perfunctorily. She was filial like that.

But she hadn't. She had persisted, albeit with uncharacteristic tardiness.

When at last Okada-sensei came stumbling through the sliding door, all heads swiveled and all voices choked to a halt, as though they had been collectively muted by remote control. Belatedly, the class stood to welcome their teacher, bowing once.

The thirty-something woman unloaded the class material on her desk, taking a moment to adjust to the warmer temperature indoors. She made quick work of the buttons on her navy blue petticoat and straightened her pressed white shirt. "Good morning." She faced the students with a wan smile, composure unbroken. "Let's get started."

Sometimes, Hana wished she could be more like Okada-sensei. The woman was a study in grace and efficiency. She sported a bob cut, claiming it "low-maintenance," but Hana had no way of internalizing the statement without getting a haircut herself—which wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

She would never admit it, but she took pride in the length and health of her hair.

To her parents, it was a "curtain" that ought to be drawn with a headband, or some sort of feminine decoration. To her gym teacher, it was a "hindrance" and "aerodynamically unfavorable." To Kyoko, it was simply "Hana."

And to Hana, it was at once a source of strength and vulnerability. She took care of her hair to remind herself that her efforts would come to fruition one day—that a likeminded soul would come to appreciate her. It was a mark of femininity, to be sure, but not a childish one. It granted her a sense of control, knowing she could fishtail braid, crown braid, and French braid, and choosing not to because she could. Okada-sensei had commented once that the hairstyle added a few years to her age. She had taken it as a compliment and hadn't looked back since.

Because really, what was the point of childhood? Of infanthood? You gave your parents a chance to play house and made a mess of everything in your path, hygiene nonexistent. You drank in high-pitched television programs and drooled all over the place. You cried when you scraped your knee and waited for someone to pamper you.

That was all there was to it.

Kyoko had laughed gently in the face of her cynicism and added, "But you were a child once, Hana."

She had felt the heat inching up the nape of her neck, perspiring beneath the weight of her hair (annoyed by the length for once), and muttered, "Don't remind me."

She loathed children for their sense of entitlement.

And how fickle their loyalties were! Sucking their thumb and glaring up at a stranger they would be starry-eyed over the minute they received some sort of impressive bribe. She had babysat her neighbor's five-year old twins two summers ago, and made a conscious decision thereafter to avoid babysitting at all costs.

Their aunt had paid them a visit, and the kids had completely ignored Hana, fawning over their relative and the presents she'd brought from a trip abroad. Hana had patiently prepared the previous night's leftovers for lunch as per the mother's instruction, but the boys would have none of it. They threw a fit and accused Hana of spoiling their fun, as she "always did." It would be better if you just went home, they said. Their aunt then decided to take them out for lunch, inviting Hana out of courtesy. Hana had declined, and finished the soggy tempura herself to avoid a confrontation with the mother. From observation, Hana knew that the mother would never rebuke her children when someone else could shoulder the blame. She cooed at them with a tone reserved for puppies, and they drank it all up, lavishing the special treatment.

What kind of royalty was the damn woman raising?

She'd gone home that night wrung dry of compassion for children. Absolutely thankless, they were.

The first time she encountered Sasagawa Kyoko, she had thought the girl childish.

By her second encounter, she knew she would not be able to continue avoiding Miss Sunshine, and the ripple of soft laughter that oft accompanied her words. Hana had questioned the girl if she had ever been bullied (surmising her nature from the number of times she responded to favors with, "It's no problem at all,"), and Kyoko had replied, "Bully me? Why would anyone want to do that?"

She wanted to groan, so you're that sort of person.

"Eh? You're eating with us today, Hana? I thought you didn't like hanging around me."

"Someone has to look out for you and your naiveté," she had grumbled, letting the cover of her bento clatter loudly on the desk. In truth, she often wondered if there were ulterior motives to her friendship with Kyoko. The girl was serene in a way that implied a smooth life. She took challenges in stride, however, and possessed excellent mental health. She wasn't saccharine to the point of insincerity, but she was sweet enough to make Hana muse over what had started their friendship in the first place.

Perhaps she'd thought more good would come her way if she was around the essence of goodness.

After all, Kyoko had even spurred Tsuna to (occasionally) get his act together.

She could respect her for that.

She'd spotted a raving thing in her arms (stunning green eyes with an outrageous afro and getup) the other day, and Kyoko had waved her over. "Come meet Lambo-chan!"

It was a testament to their friendship that Hana had inched closer, leaving a good five feet between them. She cringed as the boy began to fervently pick his nose. "No thanks," she said, and turned on her heels. "See you tomorrow."

She loathed children for the way they reduced adults to blubbering idiots, happy for a chance to mother someone and soak up their conditional affection. As adults treated children like pups, so children treated adults like faithful canines, at their service.

Ironic, wasn't it?

The sunset was too saturated for her taste, but she welcomed the closing of the day. She remembered staring up at the cirrus clouds, likening their umbrella shape to the wisps of a willow tree. She also recalled the distinct thought that Kyoko was getting involved in something she didn't know about. The girl wasn't an idiot, though she could be reduced to blubbering. If she was keeping secrets, she must have her own reasons. Nonetheless, it made Hana uneasy. She was no idiot either. If Kyoko didn't confide in her, she likely wouldn't confide in anyone.

To worsen matters, her brother had perfected a vanishing act.

Hana could say with reasonable certainty that she understood Kyoko, differences of personality aside. She could not say, however, that she grasped anything at all about her brother. Though the third years were known to be more detached, Ryohei was anything but. Still, he was somehow more elusive than the rest of them put together.

What was he thinking?

The students milled about the classroom, nonsensically theorizing over Okada-sensei's fourth late appearance. Last time, they had remained in their seats, wary of misconduct if their teacher happened upon them. This time, they had no such reservation.

Oddly disgruntled, Hana gazed out the window. Her focus sharpened when she noticed a white head sprinting in the direction of the school's back entrance. She glanced immediately to Kyoko's seat—the tawny-haired girl sat fiddling with her pencil, oblivious or purportedly so to the noise around her.

The day progressed at a laggard pace.

The next morning, Hana was walking down the hall when the same head of white came running in the opposite direction. She moved out of his way just as he moved out of hers, and the result was risibly ineffectual.

"I am extremely sorry," he bowed quickly, too busy to help her up (not that she expected him to—he was too brash and brazen for propriety of any kind). He had lifted a leg to resume his mad dash when she curtailed him with a cutting, "Hold on."

He glanced back at her warily.

Though she respected Kyoko, Hana was in no way obligated to respect Ryohei. She steered clear of him and the intense aura he emitted wherever he went. If Kyoko was the essence of goodness, her brother seemed the essence of trouble—the cuts and bruises spoke for him.

"Can you spare five minutes?" She picked herself up, dusting off the pleated blue skirt.

Ryohei hesitated. "I'm extremely—"

"Cut the bullshit."

He reeled back, startled into silence. He took care not to swear in Kyoko's presence, and Kyoko never swore at all, to the best of his knowledge. Hearing her friend curse made him suddenly worry his sister would pick up the habit. He racked his brain for a name—something, anything. Rather embarrassedly, he concluded that he could not recall the girl's name. She was admittedly obscure, and rarely spoke out. He seldom noticed anything outside of the extreme.

"Like it or not, Kyoko's already involved in whatever you're doing these days. Keeping her isolated will only put her in more danger. Is that what you want?"

A cold frown twisted his features. "No. But I don't see what this has to do with—"

"Me?" She snorted. "Any idiot can see that your sister is struggling. She's less happy these days, and when Kyoko is unhappy there's always a valid reason." Hana paused for effect. "Unless, of course, you're an extreme idiot, in which case you've probably been too busy to notice at all."

The frown evolved into a glare, but Hana had the odd notion he was glaring at himself.

"Thank you for letting me know." He bowed again before blazing down the hall.

He had taken her reproach surprisingly well.

Then again, according to Kyoko, Ryohei had never reneged on a promise.

Kyoko had begun to acquire a similar shade of purple under her eyes, mimicking Okada-sensei's sleepless appearance. Her mood had improved, however, and Hana had no idea what to make of it.

"Did you say something to my brother a few days ago?" she turned to Hana.

"Why do you ask?" Hana quirked a brow.

Kyoko chuckled to herself, cheered by the fact. "He asked about you the other day. My brother usually doesn't acknowledge anyone but potential club recruits. You must've made a lasting impression."

"As if," the taller girl waved dismissively. "But I'm glad if it helped any. Want to stop by the pastry shop after school today?" Hana knew better than to interpret Kyoko's buoyancy as a full recovery. If anything would augment the process, it was a mouthful of tiramisu at Colombo's Cakes.

"Oh! Well... I promised Haru I would meet her after school. You're welcome to join us—I'm sure she'd like to meet you." Kyoko tactfully arranged the sentence to imply that Haru would like Hana, and not the other way around (she could never be sure of what suited Hana. The girl had picky taste).

Hana scrutinized Kyoko's tone for any "I'm-inviting-you-but-I-hope-you-don't-accept" politeness.

"Okay," she relented. "Who is she?"

Encouraged, the russet-haired girl continued, "A friend from Midori Middle. She has a very... enthusiastic character," she laughed. "She's fun to be around—you'll see."

Hana knew better, but took her friend's words personally anyway. Irritated, she reminded herself that children liked fun. Adults indulged the intellect, not mindless play. So what if she wasn't fun?

She dreaded the meeting all the same.

She found she didn't mind Haru as much as she had anticipated. The girl ran her mouth, but could insert a clever argument where necessary. She could not imagine them being good friends in a school setting, however, despite her behavioral resemblance to Kyoko. They shared little common ground, and every giggle and mention of cosplay only widened the gap between them. Hana could easily imagine Haru sitting in the front row, heatedly countering the gossip surrounding Okada-sensei with outlandish ideas of her own.

Thirty minutes into their meeting and three cakes later, Hana wanted to leave.

She wasn't bored, but she was growing tired of their ceaseless chatter. Befriending Kyoko had already put her outside of her comfort zone. Linking arms with Haru would put her out of her mind.

A man crossing the street briefly snared her attention.

Upon closer inspection, she realized (with no small disappointment) that he was not a man, but a boy. Yet his confident stride and sleekly outfitted suit begged to differ. The cow print was an acquired taste, but she could forgive eccentricity for virility and maturity. It seemed he had both in excess.

Her eyes traced the curls that framed his Italian features—the straight nose, witty lips, and sharp eyes. The boy turned abruptly, as though noticing her stare. A flare of warmth stirred in her stomach and she quickly broke eye contact with a gulp of coffee, coughing as the scalding liquid burned her tongue. When she dared a peek to her right, he was gone.

Both girls looked to their companion, concerned.

Hana held up a reassuring hand, as if to say "I'm alright,"—but it seemed to Haru that the hand moaned, "I've had enough." The brunette cocked her head to a side, studying the long-haired girl. "You don't look so good," she exhaled at length. "Do you want to head back? You seem pretty tired. Can't blame you—school's just started again."

Tossing her a grateful glance, Hana smiled mildly as she stood and gathered her jacket in her arms. "Yeah, I think I'll call it a day. It was nice meeting you, Haru. Sorry to leave so soon, Kyoko."

"We're coming with you," Kyoko rushed, hands raised as if to steady her friend should she totter like a drunkard. "Besides, it's almost closing time."

Hana swallowed a twinge of annoyance. "I'm fine, really. You two chat for a bit longer; from the amount you discussed today, it doesn't seem like you get to meet that often."

Her schoolmate flushed, nodding hesitantly. "I haven't seen Haru in a while. But are you—"

"I'll be alright. I promise."

The assurance seemed to do the trick. Hana inwardly questioned if anyone had ever let Kyoko down before. She certainly did not want to be the first.

Haru waved warmly as Hana left the shop, the bell ringing with the opening of the hefty oak door.

She dimly pondered why she felt as though the streets had become narrower. There were fewer people in the streets; if anything, they should seem wider. She waited to cross the road, reminded of the boy she'd seen earlier. With a jackhammering pulse, she glanced all around her, an edge of desperation in her movement.

He really had vanished.

A dozen thoughts accosted her at once. Love at first sight is a farce. What are you, a little girl? Stop thinking like that. He was a wearing pricey-looking suit—probably a spendthrift with a head of hot air. Cow print—what the hell was up with that? Granted, it's preferable to leopard print, but… stop, just stop it. Get a hold of yourself.

So Hana got a hold of herself.

A boy cracked a crude joke during a math lesson, something about tangents and curves. A rumble of laughter followed, and he ducked his head, modestly pleased.

Kyoko blushed.

Hana felt her self-control waning, and glared out the window. She had finished the worksheet before class had even started, but hid it wisely in her notebook. No one needed to know she received top marks; they would only nag her to tutor them or envy her from afar, both of which were a bother. Grades were only a means to an end—they didn't matter in and of themselves. But try telling that to a kid whose parents are bent on Todai, the only national university no one could best when boasting at ten year reunions.

Furtively, she wondered where the cow-print suit boy had gone. Wondered why the most interesting development in her life had come and gone within seconds.

Wondering when she had become so pathetic.

Most interesting development in my life? I need to get a life. But her suburban upbringing reasserted itself, ruling her thoughts with an iron fist. Exotic allure is superficial; it's only a phase. It'll only bring trouble. Don't stand out too much. Just stay as you are.

Just stay as you are.

Would things continue the way they were, if she stayed the way she was?

Kyoko had been spending an increasing amount of time with Haru, and though she extended the invitation to Hana each and every time, Hana couldn't muster the motivation to join them. Eventually, Kyoko had stopped asking, avowing that Hana could approach her anytime she was interested, that she understood Hana must be too busy (Hana was not too busy) and that she would always be there to listen whenever Hana wished to speak (Hana did not wish to speak). She didn't partake in their cake-shop conversations as much as she observed. Watching them was like looking into the sun; it hurt her eyes.

Hana didn't begrudge her for making another friend, of course. She was genuinely glad Kyoko had secured another person to trust.

It had only brought to light the inconvenient truth that perhaps Hana had only trusted Kyoko.

She was all too happy to inform her parents of her friend, eager to placate them and their worries that their "pedantic, stand-offish" daughter was not lacking interpersonal skills. But she had made few friends throughout middle school. Now, as a first-year in high school, not much had changed. She could not even entertain the notion of bangs. They were simply frills on the cake, and Kurokawa Hana was not one for frills on anything.

Most importantly, she was not fond of irreversible actions. One could call it "boring", but it wasn't like she only played it safe. Hell, she had taken up her crazy uncle's offer to go skydiving the summer before. Her desire to experience the adrenaline rush had trumped her desire to remain in control.

That was all.

If there was one immutable thing she enjoyed, it was her friendship with Kyoko. The two had remained in touch over the years, though they were separated by different classes. Luckily, Kyoko had landed in the same class as Haru, and the two were regularly seen together in the halls.

Ryohei's presence was just as scarce, if not more. The cuts and scrapes he incurred only grew more severe, manifesting in the form of broken arms and black eyes.

Undeterred, he bounced back.

How he did it, Hana had no idea.

But she felt that something had changed between them. When they passed each other in the halls, he quickened his pace and sped past her, a gust of musky scent left in his wake. She couldn't pinpoint any confrontation that would rile him so, apart from her reminder several years back about his neglectful treatment of Kyoko.

Then again, he had always struck her as one to hold a grudge, particularly when pride was involved.

She felt herself growing more and more ordinary as she felt him growing more and more... well, extreme. There was no other way of putting it. His gaze was always forceful, as though he expected you to challenge him to a match in the ring. Most shied away from it, preferring to stare off into space as they addressed him. Hana held his gaze, but he would not look at her.

And for some reason, that ticked her off.

But she would take in several deep breaths and put it all behind her. It was easy enough to do, what with all the teachers clamoring about university and exams and the meaning of life. She imagined the cow-print suit boy smirking, "Lame. You gotta stop and smell the roses." Shut up, you, she would growl to herself, earning a few alarmed looks from her classmates. The world has no time for the likes of you. I have no time for you, either.

On a windy spring afternoon, Hana mounted her plum purple bike and kicked the kickstand, preparing for the half-hour journey home. She had to commute to the high school, but it was well worth it; the campus was beautiful and she had always been sensitive to the month of April and its blossoms. Kyoko liked to joke that Hana was aptly named after all.

Hana didn't get very far.

Ryohei ran right in front of her, blocking her path. Had she not pressed the brakes until they left red welts on her fingers, she would have flattened him. Her hair swept forward, obscuring her profile. She touchily flicked it out of her face.

The seventeen year-old panted lightly, eyeing the girl directly for the first time in years.

She noticed his extensive musculature and thought perhaps the bike would have been flattened instead. He was still as lean as ever, but his abdomen was rock solid, and she retracted her gaze too soon to assess any other result of his training. She wound the pedal up with one foot, keeping the other on the ground.

"Hana," he said, as if testing out her name. She personally found it a tad too bold; he had only ever addressed her by surname. But she didn't correct him, fearing he would hold it against her.

"Yeah?"

"I have an extremely important match tonight."

She nodded. "Okay..."

"You should come."

That caught her off-guard. "What? Why? Isn't Kyoko your 'luck'?"

He laughed nervously. "She doesn't like to watch. But you should come."

There was something illogical about asking the close friend of his sister, who didn't care for boxing, to watch him box. Hana tested the brakes, wondering if he'd get the hint. She found it difficult to maintain eye contact, and berated herself for backing down the one time he returned her probing glance. "Sorry, I... um..."

Blanching, he blurted again, "You should come."

She sighed. "That's not a reason."

He bit his lip, clearly unprepared for her original question. "Seven P.M., local arena."

With that, he jogged off.

Hana found herself feeling glad that he had forgone a shirt—he would have been sweating down the front and back, and nothing repelled her more than sweat-soaked men. Under any other circumstance, she would have flatly refused. Watching men beat each other to a pulp was not a leisure activity of hers. She caught herself, freezing in her tracks as her fingers found the brakes.

Since when did she refer to Ryohei as a "man"?

She banished the thought. Man, boy, whatever—pure semantics.

There was no doubt that if she failed to show up for his "extremely important match," there would be consequences. She didn't believe he would do anything threatening to her, as he was associated with Kyoko, and Kyoko had full faith in her brother. She would vouch for him any day—but Hana would not be won over so easily. Kyoko had vouched for Tsuna, too, but Hana wouldn't trust that boy with anyone's life. She had seen him whimpering from a failed geometry test, jumping up two feet at the sight of a spider, and sitting squeamishly outside the day they dissected frogs.

But something had compelled Ryohei to approach her.

She would find out what.

Hana dialed home while pedaling on, the phone wedged in-between her ear and right shoulder. She opened the front door while massaging her neck, grimacing from the cramp.

"Hana, is that you? What were you saying about an evening study group?"

Had she made the right decision?

She entered the stadium feeling utterly out of place.

The guy in the ticket booth had laughed when he saw her. "Come to support your sweetheart?"

"No," she bit out, prickling. "Am I not allowed to come for myself?"

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "The doors close in a few minutes; I suggest finding your seat quickly."

She maneuvered past overzealous fans, murmuring countless "excuse me"s and "sorry"s. The stadium was half-full, but the volume of cheering would leave an outsider none the wiser. For the most part, people were divided into two clusters, one on each side of the ring. That left the adjoining spaces conspicuously empty. Hana ventured into the top line of bleachers, somewhat apart but still extended from the group. Since she had made the effort of coming, she might as well snag a decent spot. The metal benches were hard and cold. Breathing into her fists, Hana couldn't help thinking that some sadistic architect had a hand in the design.

Pulsing instrumental music beat overhead, and she swallowed anxiously. The arena was the color of pool tables—artificial lawn green.

Around the square were blue strips advertising sponsors. Red boxing ring ropes fenced off the spotlighted arena, and she involuntarily started when Ryohei stepped into view, stretching calmly. His unruly white hair was framed by white headgear, and he slipped in his mouth guard before donning two red gloves. The man—boy—was a collection of hasty angles: slanted brows, chiseled jawline, narrow waist, jutting calves, and tapered ankles. His spine held it all together, somehow; held all the angles in one plane, one fluidity. He was tall for a boxer, she would give him that. From what she'd glimpsed on television (her uncle was a fan), the boxers were commonly stout and sturdy.

Hana had always known him as "Kyoko's older brother"—and she suddenly didn't recognize "Ryohei."

She watched with her heart in her throat as he climbed onto the ring, soon joined by his opponent of similar height. The other boy was considerably less angular, she decided—"softer."

The lightweight boxers touched gloves, blue and red bumping together.

The bell clanged.

After a preliminary dance on light feet and heavy centers, the boys traded fierce blows. Ryohei landed the first few—a jab-cross-hook-uppercut combination that had his opponent staggering for balance. He closed in for a knockout, but they weren't finished just yet. The other boy—Akihiro, according to the flashing display board—surged up with vengeance, landing a series of body blows on the thinner boxer. The attack, however, exposed his head, and Ryohei dodged the blows as they came, stepping in with a jab, leading off of his toes for the successive punch and swinging his hips and elbow in a tight arc as he landed a nasty left hook to Akihiro's jaw. He swiftly retracted his arm to a ready position beneath his chin before his elbow could clip his opponent, a forbidden move.

The stockier boy's cheek rippled at the impact.

Hana felt her stomach drop.

Neither was remotely soft.

Akihiro raised both elbows and hunched, defending from Ryohei's third advance. He was forced into a corner of the ring, back pressing against the ropes.

Hana felt sick.

At the first pause in the flurry, he threw a jab at Ryohei's face, reinstating their former distance as the white-haired boxer retreated.

With a better view of Ryohei, she noted the blood running down the edge of his lip. She clenched her fists, shaking. He was smiling. It wasn't the maniacal grin of a man who went for gore—it was the steady confidence of a man who spoke with punches. She briefly wondered if there was a sense of poetry to the way he moved and timed the jabs. He didn't rush in an animalistic manner, but he was fast. His moves had years of experience behind them, but his pacing was spontaneous; a living, breathing creature.

Boxing, she supposed, suited him. You had to be extreme for it to light up your eyes as you became a virtual punching bag. How he maintained equanimity, she could not begin to comprehend. But he seemed more at home in the ring than he had ever seemed at school—a restless, loud truant.

She felt the opposite: school dulled her pulse, and stepping into the stadium sent it skyrocketing.

Her attention fully returned to the match when Ryohei suffered an abrupt knockdown, face contorted in a picture of pain. Fans booed, screaming at the referee about a kidney punch, another forbidden move. Before the referee could act, however, Ryohei pushed himself up. Akihiro flinched, unsure if he should take advantage of the delay or forfeit the match to avoid his inevitable comeuppance. No one would be able to tell whether the kidney blow had been intentional or not.

How many times had he fallen for the chance to spar with Ryohei? How many times had he bled, bruised, and backpedaled into the ropes?

He considered his opponent grimly, knowing he only had one chance.

The fans jeered. His roared.

But what did they know, anyway? They were in it for the dopamine high. He was in it for the long haul.

He closed in, moving deftly.

Hana couldn't breathe. Nothing was making sense anymore. The screams blurred into a single static in her brain, and she stood still, eyes straining wide. Even if she screamed at him, it was unlikely that her voice would carry over the others. Besides, Kurokawa Hana did not scream.

But in that moment, she was sorely tempted to.

With nothing to do but watch, she felt something inside her unravel. The searing heat within her made her reaction to the cow-print suit boy trifling in comparison. Something was building inside her, something that felt awfully close to poison, what with the way it intoxicated her and sent the blood rushing to her face. His limp form on the canvas seemed to breathe fire into her lungs.

Ryohei rose slowly, sparing her the agony of wait. He lifted a left arm weakly. The sight made her ache to close her eyes—but she owed it to him to watch to the very end.

Akihiro stepped in for a straight right.

Seconds before contact, Ryohei ducked underneath his opponent's arm, landing an uppercut. He followed with impeccable footwork and a flurry of body jabs, finishing with another devastating left hook sucker punch.

Akihiro fell to the side and stayed down.

The count began.

Dead silence.

The crowd chanted along.

The boy's trainer shifted in his seat.

The corner man rushed to Akihiro's side, showing the counts on his fingers as though his boxer was blind. Get up, his brain screamed. Stay down, his bones simpered.

Akihiro twitched.

He lifted his head.

10.

It fell back down.

Knockout.

Hana wanted to cry.

She came across him afterwards, after he had been thoroughly mobbed by a swarm of supporters. It had been quite an accident, really; she had stuck around without knowing why, and he had walked into her, reflexively gripping her arm to keep from stumbling.

As he looked up, he grinned.

"You came."

"Yeah..." she managed awkwardly, knowing they were equally surprised. "Are you... alright?" Fresh blood dripped from his nose.

He released his grip sheepishly. "Sorry."

The stadium had cleared out, and Hana began to feel self-conscious. "Well, congratulations." She wished she had brought a few tissues; watching him box was one thing—watching him bleed was another. She had a feeling they recurrently went hand in hand. Ryohei appeared quite at ease, however, thrilled in spite of his wounds.

"It's because you came," he commented casually, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"Pardon?" She was awed that she had witnessed the unhygienic act and felt no need to back away.

"I won because you came."

She would trust the man's skill within an inch of her life, but she could not fathom his thought process. "But... you weren't aware that I came, right?"

"Does it matter?" he smiled, peeling off his white elastic hand wraps.

"Yes, because you're not making sense," she began impatiently, falling into old habits. Her gaze followed the unwinding of the gauzy material as Ryohei's hands emerged, knuckles reddened and digits pale from the pressure applied. He flexed his fingers, and Hana blinked down at her canvas shoes, unexpectedly dizzy.

"I'm making perfect sense," he contradicted, laughing at her galled shock. He had never confronted her before, either dodging or answering from an entirely different angle. She'd frequently thought him to be slow, but it seemed he also exercised selective hearing. "You'll understand someday. It all makes perfect sense now."

"Can you spare five minutes?" she burst, harking back to her second year at Namimori. You need to tell me what the hell is going on here.

"Not now," he reluctantly replied, eyes holding hers. "But soon."

"Just," Hana sighed, exasperated. "Why me? Why now?" She grit her teeth, allowing herself this breach of habit. She had trained herself not to question what she couldn't answer. It had worked splendidly for tests, but got her nowhere with Ryohei.

"I've never been able to convince Kyoko to come to a match. But you came," he restated, as though it was obvious and she had to be dense to miss it.

"Yes, but why did you ask me to?"

"I can't tell you."

Hana stared at him incredulously. Was this guy reading off the pages of How to Piss Off Kurokawa Hana in Four Words or Less? "If you're going to treat me like Kyoko, forget it. I won't bite; you can't feed me the shitty excuses you fed her." The guy could throw a punch, but what came out of his mouth left much to be desired.

"I don't treat you like Kyoko," he admitted quietly, dropping his gaze.

It was a loaded statement, and she reacted to it as one would to a cocked gun.

Hana had the impulse to bolt, but after standing through the entire ten rounds, her tendons had other plans. She wanted to flee to somewhere far, far away from this man—boy—and the absurd mind tricks he had to be playing on her. "Would it kill you to explain yourself?"

"...No, but it might kill you." Ryohei glanced at her seriously. "It's late. I'll walk you home."

"I rode my bike here."

"Then I'll run. It'll be a great post-match exercise," he enthused, eyes twinkling.

"You're in no state to run a mile and a half," she chastised. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Don't be Hana," he tossed back, rolling his eyes. "What if I demanded that?"

"This isn't funny," she grunted. "You're on the verge of collapse and my parents are bound to worry, so I'll just get home. I suggest you do the same before you pass out."

"I won't pass out," he retorted, offended. "I could stand here all night—"

Fed up, Hana clamped a hand over his mouth, ignoring his reddening cheeks. "Maybe, but I think it's in your best interest if you don't."

"I can't let you go home alone," he blurted once she'd removed her hand, overlooking her cringe as she wiped it on her burgundy wool jacket. "What if something happens?"

"What would happen?" she ventured carefully.

His grey eyes clouded over. "Anything. Nothing. I don't know."

Slumping in defeat, she sighed. "Then let's go. I'm not going to be held responsible if the cops find you collapsed in the middle of the street tomorrow morning."

"What a horrible thing to say," he mused.

"Then don't collapse," she returned tartly.

He kept a steady pace behind her as she biked home. Not that she had glanced backwards to check on him—but she could hear his light footfalls, a constant rhythm.

What a strange boy, she thought.

While cleaning the chalkboard, Hana caught sight of Kyoko and Ryohei sitting on a bench just outside the window, with their backs to her. Guiltily grateful the window was open, she moved closer.

"You're going end up freaking her out, you know."

"But she came!"

"It doesn't matter!" Kyoko elaborated, sighing. "She doesn't know about the bazooka, so you can't assume anything."

Silence.

"But... that's not fair," he muttered. "She came... and I won... and... and..."

Kyoko patted him consolingly. "Just tell her. Tsuna told me, didn't he?"

Ryohei ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "But what good did it do? It gave you nightmares and you couldn't do anything about it."

"You know..." Kyoko swallowed. "The future you saw... it's not necessarily fixed. Anything can happen. Assuming you never tell her... that future might never be yours." She regretted her words instantly as her brother paled, resting his head in his palms. "Ah, but, that's not to say—"

"I get it," he interrupted with a leaden heart. "I'll never tell her."

She attended his matches many times after that.

Hana was careful to hide the fact, avoiding him whenever possible in and out of school. She had seen him lose only once, when he had been knocked unconscious. It took all of her willpower to come to his next match, but she soon overcame her qualms. He had healed in a remarkably short span of time.

She was beginning to realize the fundamental difference between them.

Her first impression of Ryohei had been far from satisfactory. He came crashing into her life under the title of "someone I must tolerate for Kyoko's sake," and in six years graduated to a looming question mark she couldn't shake from her mind. He was excessive, overprotective, and dogged. He never did anything halfway. Damned beast had the tenacity of the devil, and the kindness of anything but.

If Hana's aloof disposition was built on the belief that she did not want her reality, then Ryohei's boundless energy was built on the belief that he would change his reality.

It was then that she realized: if anything, she was inferior to him.

She purposely missed a few of his matches, bitterly fighting the desire to watch him do what he loved with a pride and dignity she had come to understand, because it was not hers to wield. Outside the arena, she could only muster sidelong glances at him before turning away resentfully. What burned in the pit of her stomach each time she laid eyes on his crouching form—headgear, mouth guard, gloves and all—was an inextricable tangle of marvel and jealously.

How could Kyoko refuse?

Sure, it frayed her nerves—but there was nothing else like it.

And it just so happened that Ryohei was not her brother. Hana wondered if she would want to watch him if he was, and decided she did not wish to consider any scenario in which Ryohei was her blood relative. She felt alive when she watched him box. But she felt herself growing distant with her grasp of reality, and what she wanted to do with her life.

It frightened her that he could do that to her, even unwittingly.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Hana was not choleric by nature; in fact, she seldom reacted to the stimuli imposed on her, regarding most troubles as unworthy of expending effort on. She had made an exception for Kyoko. But there was something about Ryohei's resolve that engulfed her whole, threatening to drown her when he so much as looked her way.

"My brother? Nah, that's just his default gaze," Kyoko tittered, amused. "He's not actually scary."

But Kurokawa Hana was scared.

She idly wondered if she could hate him for that.

She couldn't.