Title: Love and Marriage
Rated: very very M
Pairing: 6927 (MukuroxTsuna) with some background TsunaxOC (I promise it's minor)
Warnings: check the rating and... adultery
Comments: For khrminibang. I'm typically not a fan of fics like this, but I just really wanted to write a Mukuro-is-Tsuna's-mistress fic so... there ya go lol

Summary: For the Vongola Tenth, marriage is just another business deal for the benefit of the family. For Sawada Tsunayoshi, love is an illusion even Mukuro can’t fabricate.

--

“Where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage.” ~Benjamin Franklin

--

They were married in spring, beneath the boughs of a cherry blossom grove. At the bank of the river, their small assemblage gathered between the trees, and Sawada Tsunayoshi, tenth boss of the Vongola, spoke his vows of love and fidelity to Maria Cavallone.

Paper lanterns hung from spider silk threads strung through the winding branches, orbs of light that bobbed like a drove of fireflies above their heads. At Tsuna’s back, his guardians stood in a formidable line of sharp black suits and gleaming cuffs. He had little idea how Reborn had coerced both Hibari and Mukuro to attend and behave themselves, but there they stood, deceptively docile alongside the others, six beacons of strength that had him straightening his shoulders with the unassuming knowledge that they were Vongola.

The river sighed, cool air sweeping between their legs and sifting through hair, upsetting the perch of blossoms that wreathed the gauzy lace of his bride’s veil.

Her hands were warm. Her palms smoothed along his as she slid a new ring onto his finger, the simple gold band a strange counterpoint to the weight of the Vongola Sky ring, heavy on his right hand.

***

He met Maria at his twentieth birthday celebration in Sicily. He’d been told months beforehand, by Reborn and the Ninth, that they had selected from among their allies a girl who would suit both Tsuna and the Vongola. She was the second cousin to Dino Cavallone, their closest ally, and quite possibly the prettiest girl Tsuna had ever met. Aside from Kyoko, of course.

At the time, he could barely speak Italian and Maria had only just begun learning Japanese a few months prior, when their engagement had been arranged. They’d spent the entire evening blushing amidst the glow of crystal sconces, and stuttering each other’s language in abysmal accents in between the flow of Tsuna’s guests, who meandered around them in staid suits and sleek dresses.

Tsuna conceded that she was a beautiful girl, but marriage—much less an arranged one—had never been on Tsuna’s list of life altering decisions (but then, neither had ‘become a Mafia boss’). Despite repeated assurances of their compatibility, Tsuna continued to extend their engagement, torn between what he wanted as simply Sawada Tsunayoshi and his duty as the Vongola Tenth (even though he had no illusions that his entire life had careened away from what it’d been in Japan; displaced, rearranged, like the careful unraveling of loose threads, woven anew into something sturdier and far more difficult to unstitch).

“Tradition is as good as Mafia law,” Dino said, the morning after the third year anniversary of Tsuna’s engagement. He ran a hand through his hair and Tsuna contemplated the fine lines just visible at the corners of Dino’s eyes.

“What do I care of Mafia law?”

Dino sighed. His presence in Tsuna’s drawing room, to Tsuna’s understanding, was at the behest of Maria’s father, who’d begun to question the Vongola’s resistance to setting a wedding date. As their boss, it was Dino’s duty to ensure the strength of their alliances. Tsuna couldn’t begrudge the man, who he still looked to for advice from time to time.

“Tsuna,” he said. His smile was apologetic. “You were raised outside of your father’s world. I don’t expect you to understand everything. Frankly, you’re a better boss for it. But no matter how fair or righteous or benevolent you are, the fact remains that we are Mafiosi. Dress it up however you like, in whatever form makes it easier for you to accept.” His eyes flickered away. “We protect our families, and we look after our own. But we are Mafiosi.”

“Dino is right,” Reborn cut in. “You know this already, Tsuna. The Mafia has its regulations and there are certain ones you’d do well not to break. An alliance through marriage, once formed, is sacred. Break it, and you and your entire family is forfeit. The Vongola are no exception.”

“Maybe if you and the Ninth had consulted me before arranging my love life—”

Reborn waved off his words with a flick of his small hand. It was an argument Tsuna had yet to win. “Not love life, idiot Tsuna. Reinforcing your alliance with the Cavallone beyond your relationship with Dino. The Cavallone are your strongest allies.”

Tsuna sucked in a breath of air to resist arguing further. Then he frowned down at his hands, limp in his lap. “So what you’re saying is I should resign myself to this marriage?”

Dino shook his head at the same time Reborn nodded. Tsuna hitched an eyebrow.

Dino gave him a crooked smile. “I can assure you that regardless of whether you marry Maria, the Cavallone will remain your allies so long as I’m boss. But that doesn’t mean the other families won’t condemn you.”

“Tsuna, haven’t you noticed something about Salvatore Mancinelli?” Reborn asked.

Tsuna shook his head at the non sequitur. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Salvatore, boss of a small Mafia family, had recently hosted his son and heir’s birthday party. Tsuna had attended, just for appearances, and had indeed taken notice of something. While Salvatore’s wife had been treated with the utmost respect, Salvatore had spent the majority of his time at the side of a woman half his age, with a cascade of black curls and hips that swayed when she walked. Tsuna had had trouble looking away.

“He has a mistress. I’m sure you noticed.”

Hunching his shoulders, Tsuna felt his cheeks grow warm despite himself. He shifted in his seat, growing exasperated yet again with the exhausted topic of his engagement. “What’s your point? His private life is none of my business.”

“Your men may marry for love or whim, but you marry for the benefit of the entire family. Because of this, should you choose to seek love elsewhere, no one would think less of you for it.”

Mouth agape (because Tsuna was pretty sure Reborn had just given him permission to commit adultery), Tsuna blinked between Dino’s pained expression and Reborn’s placid one (such ruthlessness hidden behind the luminous eyes and soft curves of a child’s face).

He sputtered. “C-come again?”

***

Tsuna, possibly, loved Maria Cavallone. Three years of designed companionship with the person he was meant to share his life with was, unfortunately, effective in forging a relationship, however indisposed Tsuna was to marriage in general.

But Tsuna wasn’t in love with her. She was pleasant company. She spoke her thoughts freely when Tsuna asked her for them, but she did so with soft, temperate words that reminded him, a little painfully, of the other woman he’d once entertained a life with. He’d begun to understand why Reborn and the Ninth had selected her.

With not a little shame, he realized he’d never asked her how she felt about their engagement.

“I’ve always been prepared to do what was necessary for the family,” she replied, when Tsuna finally asked. “But... I don’t mind. That it’s you, I mean. You’re not like the other men my father considered for me. You’re...” She folded her hands in her lap, as if flustered by the disclosure. “You’re kind.”

Tsuna let that knowledge settle in his chest.

He married her the following spring.

***

After the ceremony, the guests—immediate family and close friends—converged on the newlyweds. Petals were crushed beneath a flurry of Italian leather boots and dainty pumps, their chorus of congratulations rising up from the branches like a mislaid hymn. Sunset cast the sky in dusky shades of lavender and amaranth pink, reflected a million times in the ripples of the river and the facets of his wife’s ring.

Hibari gave them all a look of hostile impatience and strolled away into the lengthening shadows, Kusakabe immediately moving to flank his right side. Tsuna smiled at their retreating backs and made a mental note to thank Hibari later for attending and not putting any of his guests in the hospital. Yamamoto’s arm was warm against his shoulder, his laughter a pleasant harmony to the first dulcet notes of a violin, creeping in measures across the flowering grove.

An open pavilion had been erected nearby where the small orchestra played. Tsuna squeezed Maria’s hand before pulling her forward for the first dance. For months before the wedding, he’d spent a few hours a week learning how to dance without tripping over or crushing his partner’s feet. But he still stumbled when she smiled at him and he blamed his scattered nerves for his unease at the quiet happiness in her eyes.

Yamamoto effectively charmed all three of Maria’s bridesmaids and spent the majority of the evening dancing with each of them in turn. Lambo had disappeared with Maria’s cousin and Tsuna was forced to ask Reborn to please locate them and prevent a family scandal before Tsuna had even left for his honeymoon. Gokudera sat removed from the others, casting scathing looks at anyone who appeared even remotely interested in approaching him. Tsuna urged him to relax and just enjoy himself, but he protested by insisting that he wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to ruin the Tenth’s special day. Tsuna could only shove a drink in Gokudera’s hands and reassure him that nothing would happen.

In his periphery, Tsuna was aware of Mukuro, lingering in the margins of the festivities; Chrome in her lilac taffeta a pale waif or a second shadow at his side. Tsuna caught his eye a few times, and Mukuro smiled without fail, secrets hidden in the curve of his lips. Unsettled, Tsuna felt his cheeks grow warm for no apparent reason.

When her father swept Maria off, Tsuna snuck away from the congratulatory words and smiles that gathered around him like links in a chain. They meant well though and Tsuna could only appreciate their good intentions. His parents, his friends—they knew how reluctant he was to marry. They didn’t know why he’d finally acquiesced. They probably assumed he had at last fallen in love. This was meant to be the happiest day of his life, wasn’t it? Or did that apply solely to the bride, and the groom was simply expected to fall in line?

Tsuna crouched at the bank of the river and watched the moonlight vie with the lights from the pavilion in the dips and swells of the waves. Cherry blossoms floated along with the current, spinning in lazy circles and gliding past like gondolas without oarsmen. To his left, there was the murmur of voices.

He looked up and nearly fell into the river when Kyoko blinked down at him.

“Tsu-kun,” she said, voice soft, delicate like the petals caught in her hair.

“K-Kyoko,” he said, flushed, because even though they’d been friends for the better part of a decade, he’d been in love with her for half that time and any fleeting fantasies of marriage he’d ever had had involved her standing at his side in a white kimono.

“Congratulations, Tsu-kun. I’m happy for you.” She smiled and Tsuna felt something twist in his stomach.

“I—”

“KYOKO!? THERE YOU ARE!” Ryohei’s shadow cut across the grass between them. He made his way over from the pavilion, the glow of lanterns illuminating the clean lines of his suit. “Oh, Sawada! Sneaking away at your own reception?!”

“N-no, that’s not—ooph.” Ryohei’s hand had slapped down on his back and nearly sent him sprawling into the river. While Tsuna had grown to a respectable height over the years, he was still shorter than the rest of his guardians and certainly didn’t sport the brawn Ryohei boasted.

Tsuna rubbed the back of his neck and smiled weakly at Kyoko. Ryohei laughed and helped him to his feet before dragging him back to the others and his waiting bride.

Maria stood at the edge of the pavilion, one pale hand resting against the corner beam and the other patting self-consciously at her white blond curls. Tsuna ducked his head and looked away, catching sight of Reborn and Gokudera sitting further off, likely discussing his responsibilities to come.

As his right hand man, Gokudera had been given the duty of handling Tsuna’s affairs when Tsuna left for his honeymoon. He didn’t have the luxury of indulging in a lengthy holiday (and truthfully, he would have rather kept it brief anyway, preferring to be in the familiar, if haphazard, comfort of his family), so he had arranged for him and Maria to spend four days in Greece, which he hoped would be a suitable amount of time for... post-marital bonding.

Yamamoto would accompany them. Tsuna didn’t think it’d be necessary but the overwhelming decision from his guardians had been for at least one of them to act as an escort and guard. Gokudera had grudgingly conceded that since he couldn’t fill the position himself, Yamamoto would have to do.

The evening wound down quickly after Tsuna rejoined his wife and an hour later, the small party gathered at the side of the road to see Tsuna and Maria off. Probably twice as anxious as his wife, Tsuna slid into the leather seat, the train of Maria’s gown gathered up around his knees. His family waved, looking tired but joyful. Kyoko was tucked up against Ryohei’s side and further back, Haru stood, her smile just as painfully bright as the others.

Behind the car, Yamamoto and Gokudera had lined up on their motorcycles to escort him back to the hotel.

Tsuna bit his lip and scanned the faces again, settling finally on the slender figure of his Mist guardian. Mukuro stood removed from the others, back against the trunk of a cherry blossom tree. He tugged lightly at the cuffs of his suit, lips moving as he spoke to Chrome. Then, as if sensing Tsuna’s gaze, he turned his head and the smile perched there only a moment ago shifted away, like a mote of dust tucked behind a shaft of light.

He tilted his head back, his tranquil recline belied by the sudden intensity in his focused eyes.

“Tsuna?” Maria said, just as the car rolled forward.

Tsuna swallowed and looked away.

***

When Tsuna was eighteen, he had been startled from his dreams by a voice, whispered so clearly that he was certain the man had to have been there in his room, lurking in the shadows beyond the drapes of his bed. But after a quick survey of his suite, he had little doubt that he was indeed alone and that the voice had belonged to his Mist guardian, who was still locked away behind chains and glass and deep, deep cold.

Tsuna told no one of the incident, just as he told no one how, a few nights later, Mukuro had wandered into a dream he’d been having about a lighthouse and sat down along the rocks at its base. The tide had rushed across his dark boots in waves of froth and salt.

“Mukuro-san,” Tsuna had said, and then stumbled on the loose sand, landing awkwardly amidst the rocks. “Ow... That shouldn’t hurt in a dream, should it?”

Mukuro had chuckled and closed his eyes, resting his head against the wet stone of the lighthouse. “Next time,” he had said, “choose some place quieter.”

Afterwards, Mukuro became something of a landmark in his dreams.

Tsuna hadn’t felt fear of Mukuro for some time, so his continuing presence stirred in Tsuna little more than bemused curiosity. In his ignorance, he had assumed Mukuro had simply grown bored with whatever scheme he’d been likely devising and decided to turn Tsuna’s subconscious into a playground.

His visits were sporadic. Sometimes, Mukuro spent every night for a week smoothing out the wrinkles of Tsuna’s dreamscapes, substituting colors and sharpening details as Tsuna watched, rapt. Then, he disappeared for weeks at a time before returning, strangely drawn and disinclined to speak at length.

When Mukuro seemed amenable to conversation, they spoke of the Vongola, of Tsuna’s plans, which naturally included his Mist guardian. In response, Mukuro smiled his secretive smile, and spoke words with endless hidden meanings, and Tsuna laughed, unafraid. Other times, he was silent, returning Tsuna’s attempts at conversation with a weary curve of his mouth and little else. Those times, Tsuna sat quietly at his side and they watched the dream shift around them: waves lapping at a white shore, trees shedding flame-bright leaves, snowflakes falling in feathery drifts, brilliant landscapes that were more Mukuro’s creation than anything Tsuna’s mind would have been able to conjure.

Inevitably, Tsuna began to wonder.

“Why do you ask?” Reborn said, when Tsuna asked him if he knew anything of Mukuro’s movements in the last year.

“Shouldn’t I be aware of what my Mist guardian is doing?”

“Very well,” Reborn said. He hopped up onto the armchair opposite Tsuna’s desk and aimed Tsuna a look that was unusually grave. “Mukuro is currently in a program the Vendici call Restitution.”

Tsuna fiddled with the pencil in his hands, flipping it end over end in his agitated fingers. “And what does that mean?”

“It means he is in their service, until such a time arrives that he has earned his freedom.”

“His freedom?” Tsuna straightened, the pencil in his hand dropping to his desktop with a soft clatter. “He can do that?”

“Yes,” Reborn said, his tiny brows drawn.

“What aren’t you telling me, Reborn?”

“The Vendici are not altruistic, Tsuna. You have no concept of their idea of restitution.”

Tsuna closed his eyes and saw immediately the utter stillness in Mukuro’s profile, the lack of energy to do little else than sit and breathe imaginary air with imaginary lungs.

“What do they make him do?” Tsuna said.

Reborn shook his head. “It’s best that I don’t answer that.”

“Reborn,” Tsuna said, standing. “What do they make him do?”

They glared at each other for several taut seconds before Reborn crossed his arms. “The Vendici are constantly at war. With themselves, with others like them. It’s in their nature to dominate and enforce order, especially against those who resist.”

“I’ve never heard anything about a war,” Tsuna said. He closed his hand around the pencil again, fingers clenched around the thin strip of wood.

“And you won’t. Locating their battles is impossible and trying to do so would be like grasping at shadows. They aren’t the sort to be recorded in the history books. Those who have tried have disappeared into the night.”

Tsuna swallowed. “So then they make Mukuro fight for them? They send him off to... to do their dirty work?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. Although, make no mistake, Mukuro goes of his own free will. He has chosen to obey them, at the risk of his life.”

“Not much of a choice,” Tsuna said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Life behind a glass prison, floating in stasis, caught somewhere between life and death... or servitude to his ruthless jailors who would just as soon see him dead. “So then... what do they make him do?”

Reborn scowled, the expression odd on his child’s face. “For your piece of mind, don’t ask me that again.”

Tsuna’s lips tightened but he nodded, a part of him relieved that Reborn refused to answer.

Tsuna had no illusions about what exactly Mukuro was. He understood that Mukuro was a murderer. A guiltless murderer, no less. He remembered every wound his friends had suffered fighting Mukuro that long ago day in Kokuyo. Mukuro was not an innocent man by any stretch of the word.

But Mukuro was still human. He thought about Mukuro sitting against a tree somewhere in the endless pages of his dreams, frail hands folded in his lap, his wan smile turned toward a light breeze that smelled of mint and jasmine. Mukuro was still only human. And, perhaps even more importantly, he was family.

He thought, possibly, he saw Mukuro’s visits for what they were—a refuge, however lacking. Why Mukuro had chosen Tsuna, as opposed to one of his subordinates, Tsuna couldn’t begin to guess. But Tsuna was his boss, and while he couldn’t protect Mukuro from the Vendici, he could at least do this small thing for him by indulging his odd fondness for Tsuna’s dreams.

Mukuro returned two weeks later, quiet, subdued, unnaturally pale even within their constructed world of blurred lines and changing colors. He acknowledged Tsuna with a twitch of his mouth before his eyes closed with fatigue. Tsuna settled in the grass beside him, watching as Mukuro’s form shifted in and out of focus, too weak to do little else than this meager attempt to escape whatever nightmares he suffered in his waking hours.

Tsuna looked around in helpless frustration before he reached out with a tentative hand and curled his fingers around Mukuro’s thin wrist.

Mukuro’s eyes fluttered open and his mouth parted. “Ah,” he whispered. “This is a pleasant dream, isn’t it, Vongola?”

“Yes,” Tsuna said, nodding agreeably. He rubbed his thumb along the bump of Mukuro’s wrist bone as Mukuro’s eyes slid shut again.

Tsuna made it a habit, from then on, to provoke the man into conversation. If Tsuna were to label their relationship, he supposed he’d say that they were, tentatively, friends—even if Mukuro was never less than condescending when Tsuna spoke well of his other guardians. Regardless of Mukuro’s opinion of his comrades, Tsuna also made it a point to remind him, as often as possible, that he was family. So that someday, when the Vendici had ascertained he’d paid enough in blood, he would know he still had a place beside them.

Tsuna didn’t believe that Mukuro would put so much effort into earning his freedom, only to resume his ambition to destroy the world.

***

Tsuna hated flying between Japan and Europe. He made the trip often enough that he had learned to sleep for the majority of the fifteen-hour flight, but that only made it slightly more bearable. They had left shortly after the reception and reached Athens the following evening. Yamamoto escorted them south of Athens along the coast to a villa, owned by the Vongola.

Maria hovered in the foyer, trailing her fingers over the gold leaf details on the walls and murmuring her admiration to the beaming servants. Yamamoto left to discuss the security with the guards on staff, and Tsuna rubbed the back of his neck, at a loss, before asking Maria if she’d like to see their room.

Those first couple days were strange. Despite having known each other for three years, Tsuna felt like they were strangers again, both trying to find something familiar in an entirely new setting, with new boundaries and rules that Tsuna wasn’t privy to. Tsuna tried his best to be an attentive husband, even though their wedding night had been a stellar disaster. He’d been so mortified that he hadn’t wanted to try again.

But Maria assured him it was all right and that she felt fortunate to have a husband as inexperienced as she was.

So they tried again and, eventually, Tsuna regained the comfort he’d had with her before their vows, aided now by the peculiar exclusivities of intimacy. He still found it bizarre how many barriers were cast aside after having seen one another nude, having touched and writhed and breathed together in ways he had only guessed at before. He could touch her now with ease, light brushes of skin, small periodic gestures—a finger looped through one of her blond curls, a hand at her waist, her elbow.

On the last night of his honeymoon, Tsuna dreamt of Namimori, of himself lying sprawled across the cement rooftop, staring up at nothing but endless blue. At his side, Mukuro settled like smoke made tangible.

“Are you a man now, Vongola?”

Tsuna flushed down to his toes and ignored the way Mukuro curled around him, eyes glowing with amusement. Mukuro leaned over, his mouth unnervingly close, his hair falling over his shoulder to dust Tsuna’s cheek.

“What’s it like,” Mukuro said, “to be bound to someone?”

Tsuna licked his dry lips and turned his face away. He shrugged and smiled as best he could. “It’s not so bad.”

Mukuro retreated, long fingers brushing his hair back over his shoulder. He grinned and Tsuna ignored the mocking quality of it.

***

In August of Tsuna’s twenty first year, the Vendici released Rokudo Mukuro to the Vongola Tenth’s custody. Tsuna and his friends—his guardians—had spread Mukuro’s thin body with its livid skin and hollow cheeks on a stretcher and taken him back to the Vongola mansion. The man had been shockingly frail, all clumsy limbs and awkward joints, like a marionette with its strings cut.

His three guard dogs, Chrome, Ken, and Chikusa, had wandered the halls outside his room for months like restless apparitions, pale and drawn with worry.

The first time Mukuro had regained enough strength to speak, he had looked up at Tsuna beneath a fan of dark lashes, too heavy still to part more than a fraction. “Ah,” he had whispered. “This is a pleasant dream, isn’t it, Vongola?”

***

Tsuna didn’t believe that Mukuro would put so much effort into earning his freedom, only to resume his ambition to destroy the world.

So one evening, as fireflies crafted by Mukuro’s hand drifted between their bare feet in the high grass, Tsuna asked him.

Mukuro laughed, softly, scornfully, the only way he seemed to know how.

“Regaining the ability to move freely in this world would be more advantageous to my objectives.”

Tsuna found he didn’t believe him.

***

They returned to Italy on a Wednesday morning and it seemed the entire staff had appeared to greet them at the door of the mansion. Tsuna let the servants guide Maria to their room while he followed Gokudera back to his office. Gokudera briefed him about what he’d missed (nothing significant aside from Lambo destroying half the kitchens by releasing his box animal to resolve a fight, which Gokudera was suspiciously closed-mouthed about). He settled in quickly, returning immediately to his obligations and thanking Gokudera for doing an excellent job maintaining his duties in his absence.

On the whole, marriage changed little about Tsuna’s workdays. It was still unusual to look up from his desk and see Maria serving his tea, but she was always politely unobtrusive, especially when he had guests. When he worked late going over ledgers, she brought him his dinner with a fond kiss and a reluctant nod when Tsuna asked her, apologetically, to not wait up for him.

Sleeping with another body beside him grew comfortable, and when he was particularly lethargic in the mornings, Maria smiled and asked, “Did you have a nice dream?”

“Yes,” Tsuna said, despite that he was certain he hadn’t dreamed at all.

In fact, Tsuna’s dreams had been markedly empty since his honeymoon, devoid of his nocturnal visitor. Having been free of the Vendici for two years now, Mukuro no longer needed their peculiar means of wiling away the midnight hours. But, even after his release and recovery, Mukuro had continued to visit, and Tsuna had continued to receive him without question. It had become something of a secret between them. And now, with only the faint memory of hollow dreams to measure the passage of time at night, Tsuna discovered he missed Mukuro’s presence.

Two months after the wedding, Mukuro returned from a business trip to New York. Chrome announced her presence in his office with a light tap at his open door and a soft, “Boss?”

Tsuna put down the work he had admittedly not been focused on and nodded in greeting. “Welcome back. How was New York?”

“It was beautiful, thank you. Mukuro-sama asked me to let you know that we’ve returned. He’s very tired and would like to rest for the evening before giving you his report in the morning.”

“That’s fine,” Tsuna said. He straightened his papers and tried not to suspect Mukuro of avoiding him. “Good night, Chrome.”

“Good night.” She turned away, her footsteps as eerily silent as Mukuro’s. If not for the small measure of independence from Mukuro that Tsuna and the family had helped her foster in the passing years, he might have believed she was little more than a shade of the man she followed.

After another half hour of paging through the stacks of papers that Reborn so loved to deposit in his office at all hours of the day, he gave up trying to concentrate on the Vongola’s extensive business ventures and pushed away from his desk. Maria was still out with her friends, but Tsuna wasn’t too concerned since he’d watched her leave that morning with four of his men to protect her, including Lambo. He made it halfway to his room before changing his mind and turning back towards the corridor that led to the east wing, where Mukuro’s suite was located.

He paused outside the man’s door before mustering his nerve and knocking. He waited for approximately thirty seconds (he counted) before Mukuro’s voice called for him to enter.

Inside, Chrome was asleep on the sofa, a blanket pulled up to her thin shoulders. On the four-poster bed, Ken and Chikusa were sprawled on top of each other, snoring lightly. Mukuro sat in an armchair in front of the French doors, which had been thrown open to let in the warm evening air. The stone balcony beyond was shrouded in the shadow of the mansion’s east turret, but Tsuna doubted Mukuro had chosen his current spot for the view.

He stepped into the room, unable to help looking around in curiosity. He’d had the mansion renovated when he’d finished high school and moved to Italy to continue his education with Vongola-approved professors. In order to make the transition easier for his friends, who had insisted on remaining with him, he’d arranged to have each of their suites redone to their individual specifications.

As a result, Gokudera had his own library/laboratory; Ryohei had an Extreme Training Obstacle Course; Lambo, who had been eight at the time, had an excess of unnecessarily destructive toys; and after returning from his brief stint in the major leagues, Yamamoto had had a mini batting cage built, as well as a dojo that rivaled the Varia’s (in fact, the reigning Sword Emperor had no qualms about dropping by unannounced to make use of it). At the time, Mukuro had only just begun Restitution and, after his release, he’d declined remodeling his rooms to better suit him.

“Vongola,” he said, without turning in his seat. “This is a surprise.”

Tsuna hadn’t ventured into Mukuro’s end of the mansion since Mukuro’s recovery from his years in prison. He realized with a measure of guilt that this was the first time he had sought Mukuro’s company first.

Beneath the coffee table was the same Persian rug that had originally furnished the room. The translucent drapes on the French doors had likely never been removed except for cleaning and Tsuna suspected that if he wandered through the door in the right wall, he’d find the rest of the suite exactly as it had been, unaltered in the two years since Mukuro’s arrival. A part of him wondered if perhaps it was Mukuro’s way of refusing to settle in, some passive aggressive form of resistance to demonstrate how fleeting this was for him... or perhaps, it was simply for his peace of mind. Mukuro had always been so transitory, just as difficult to pin down as Hibari. Tsuna had never expected Mukuro to linger for even this long.

“How are...?” His voice trailed off when he spotted the white bandages wrapped around Chrome’s forearm, peeking out from beneath her blanket. He looked quickly at the bed and took note of the butterfly bandage on Ken’s brow, the bruises dotting Chikusa’s cheek and temple. “What... what happened? Why are they injured?”

“It was nothing,” Mukuro said. Tsuna felt his stomach clench at the fatigue in Mukuro’s voice, something he was well familiar with. “Not all of Romano’s men supported the arrangements he’d made with us. He had a bit of trouble controlling them and we extended our hands as allies to deal with them. That was all.”

By their injuries, Tsuna suspected that was not all, but he’d weasel the full details out of the man in the morning.

He paused at Mukuro’s side. Mukuro looked up at him, eyelids heavy with drowsiness and hair, still damp from a recent shower, down around his shoulders. He had never quite recovered his full health but he had strength enough mentally to compensate.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d have to fight anyone. I’ll call Romano in the morning.”

Mukuro’s smile was indecipherable. “Don’t apologize, Vongola. I’m not so weak as all that.”

He gestured to the padded chair against the wall beside the French doors. Tsuna pulled it over, lining it up beside Mukuro’s chair before sitting down.

“What brings you to my door?” Mukuro’s lips curled. “Has the little wife become unsuitable company for men such as us? Or are you so impatient for my report?”

“Don’t be like that, Mukuro-san. I just... I wanted to ask you something.”

At his hesitation, Mukuro raised an eyebrow.

Tsuna flushed and blinked down into his lap, feeling absurdly uncertain, very much unlike a twenty-three year old Mafia boss addressing his subordinate. Which, he supposed, was appropriate considering the subject of his concern.

“I haven’t... seen you. For a while now.”

Mukuro gave him a blank look, which Tsuna interpreted to mean he was puzzling through Tsuna’s vague statement. Then his mouth twisted into a smirk, his sleepy eyes opening with renewed interest.

“Have you missed me, Vongola?”

Tsuna looked out the open doors, at the dark silhouette of the balcony and the wisps of clouds that obscured the stars. “I just thought... maybe we could have been friends.” They had only ever spoken freely in the pockets of their dreams. Imaginary words exchanged in imaginary worlds. What did that make them then? Imaginary friends?

Mukuro fell silent, his smile enigmatic.

Despite his avoidance of a verbal answer, Tsuna found that sitting there with him in the darkening evening might suffice. It was reminiscent enough of their previous encounters to put Tsuna’s mind at ease.

In the negative space between them, they watched the night pass in heartbeats. They listened to the small sounds of discomfort Chrome made as she slept—nightmares Mukuro did nothing to pull her out from. Ken growled softly every so often and Chikusa mumbled garbled words in his sleep. Tsuna sat with him until some distant bell tower chimed midnight and Mukuro had slumped into his seat, his hair falling across his cheek.

His rest was fitful. His brows were drawn into a frown and his eyes moved behind his eyelids, quick and frantic, in some distant nightmare.

Tsuna leaned forward and placed his hand over Mukuro’s where his fingers had curled into the upholstery. Despite the warm night, his skin was cold.

***

In late summer, Tsuna received a phone call from his father with a week’s notice to attend the anniversary celebration of Iemitsu and Nana Sawada. Maria’s mother’s birthday was the same weekend and Tsuna had to all but threaten to tie Maria to a chair to make her stay with her mother instead of flying to Japan with him. Since his wife couldn’t attend, Nana had insisted he bring everyone he possibly could, so even Mukuro and his subordinates had been hauled onto the airplane to Namimori.

Iemitsu had rented a banquet hall for the party, the bill for which Tsuna suspected his accountants would be seeing soon. He greeted his father with a handshake and his mother with a hug before retreating to let the others give the couple their congratulations on a quarter century of marriage.

Nana saw much more of his father now, but his occupation still inevitably took him away from her for extended periods of time. He was still the external advisor even though Tsuna rarely referred to Iemitsu for advice and Iemitsu rarely offered it, unless it was by way of the Ninth. His mother believed he’d become a successful businessman after going abroad for University and, even if it wasn’t entirely untrue, he still felt guilty every time she told him how proud she was of him.

“How’s Maria?” Iemitsu wandered over to his side, a glass of champagne in hand.

“She’s fine,” Tsuna said, before taking a moment to mentally reevaluate his answer.

When he wasn’t working late, he asked her about her day in the evenings before bed. She always replied with small details like what Lambo had done after dinner or how Gokudera could talk about physics for hours with stirring enthusiasm or how Yamamoto still played baseball with the spirit of a child. But she never seemed to tarry overlong about herself, and Tsuna confessed he was oftentimes too tired to prod her about it.

“Ah, newlyweds. I can still remember my first year with Nana,” he said, something alarmingly nostalgic in the tone of his voice and the twinkle in his eye.

Tsuna suppressed a groan into his drink as his father rambled on about serenades under moonlit balconies and walks under Tokyo Tower and trips to Hokkaido, which, by the way, was where Kyoko was currently on vacation with her parents, and yes, Tsuna had noticed her absence, thank you for pointing it out. Tsuna rubbed at his forehead and the phantom pain there before turning his gaze across the room to his mother, who was laughing over something or other with Yamamoto.

In spite of the fact that Maria was raised among the Mafia, Tsuna couldn’t help thinking that she seemed just as much an outsider as his mother. Barely five months married and already, she existed in the margins of his life as the Vongola boss, a specter that floated in the corners of the mansion instead of the lady of the house. He supposed that was his fault for trying to salvage whatever normalcy he could of his life before marriage instead of encouraging her to take a more active role in the household.

In addition, the last thing Tsuna wanted was for any prospective children they might have to view him in the same dismissive light as he’d seen his own father. Of course, just the thought of having a child was enough to give Tsuna hives, but he figured, some day, he supposed it’d be something he might want. Possibly.

At his side, his father had lapsed into a content silence, and Tsuna sighed. Watching his friends interact, and the happy smile on his mother’s face, he could almost pretend he was just No Good Tsuna again (which, horrifying as it was to admit, he sometimes missed).

“Excuse me,” he said to his father before heading towards the door with a sign that indicated the restrooms were down the hallway.

He’d gone down a ways before he realized he’d probably missed a turn and retraced his steps, hoping he hadn’t somehow gotten himself lost. It wouldn’t be very fitting for a Mafia boss, even if Tsuna sometimes suspected his entire life was one huge parody.

He reached another turn and glanced down its empty corridor before jerking back and plastering himself against the wall. Logical thinking had abandoned him, as he suddenly believed becoming as affixed to the wall as possible was a plausible means for invisibility.

Tsuna lamented his bad luck. He had obviously missed yet another turn because he hadn’t passed this way before, seeing as the corridor wasn’t as empty as he’d expected.

It had only been a brief image, but it had burned itself into his retinas. Chikusa, jacket hanging off his shoulders, grinding his hips into Ken, whose shirt had been pushed up around his torso. They’d been against the wall, Chikusa’s face hidden behind Ken’s wide-open mouth.

Tsuna glanced around wildly, confirming that the rest of the area seemed empty. Which was fortunate considering the two weren’t trying very hard to be discreet. Ken was growling, broken periodically by a grunt or a moan and generally making an indecent amount of noise. Chikusa was eerily silent in comparison, his soft breaths barely audible.

Tsuna’s head reeled. Despite the evidence of their breathing, maybe he’d seen wrong. They couldn’t possibly be doing what he thought they were doing. It was his parents’ anniversary party, surely they wouldn’t...? True, Ken and Chikusa barely knew his parents, but Tsuna was pretty sure they were aware that this was against all the rules of etiquette ever known to man.

He recalled the two of them curled up on Mukuro’s bed, limbs and sheets tangled around them. He had naively assumed it to be the natural disorder of sleep. Shaking his head, he blinked away the recollection and, without thinking, glanced around the corner again.

Ken looked like he was trying to claw the clothes off of Chikusa’s back, and Chikusa had two handfuls of Ken’s backside. They panted against each other’s lips, not kissing, just resting their mouths together and breathing the shared air.

Tsuna felt winded just watching them. He leaned back again and dragged a hand through his hair. Did Mukuro know about this?

Of course he knew, Tsuna answered himself. Mukuro knew everything about his subordinates, and if he hadn’t known to begin with, they would have told him because their loyalty to him also extended to the disturbing if admirable notion of complete honesty. Mukuro, last Tsuna had seen, was still in the banquet hall, twirling his wine glass between two slender fingers. He had little doubt Mukuro knew very well where his two subordinates had gone off to and why.

Then, another thought struck him. Had Mukuro been a part of this? This hushed urgency, this cloaked hunger, this... subtle violence, which Tsuna had never felt in his own limited experience? They had been asleep in Mukuro’s bed, after all. Had Tsuna’s presence that night been the reason Mukuro hadn’t slid between the sheets and joined them there?

The thought made something unpleasant curl in his gut.

Rubbing at his stomach, he turned away and hurried back the way he’d come. Eventually, he found his way back to the banquet hall, slightly breathless and schooling his expression into something as neutral as possible. Gokudera spotted his entrance and rushed over, looking harried, his brows narrowed in concern. Tsuna apologized for disappearing and tried not to look at Mukuro, who sat against the far wall with a wine glass perched between his thumb and forefinger.

***

Tsuna was dreaming. He knew this because he’d become skilled at separating reality from dreamscapes, even ones as nebulous as this. In fact, this was the kind of dream he hadn’t had since early adolescence. Although it was also distinctly different.

There were rough hands against his skin; long, slender fingers and blunt nails that certainly didn’t belong to the woman he shared his bed with (nor any woman, he suspected). The hands gripped his hips with bruising strength, palms smoothing up to learn the curve of his back, the dip of his waist. The dream denied him a face, just cool hands and fleeting touches that burned through the layers of his skin and then flitted away.

A voice, conspicuously out of place, said, “Oh? Am I disrupting something?”

Tsuna jerked awake. He glanced down, bewildered at the erection between his legs, straining against the linen of his pajama bottoms as Mukuro’s sarcastic laughter echoed in his head. At his side, soft hands reached for his face, touching lightly at his heated skin.

“Tsuna?” Maria said, voice husky with sleep.

His throat was dry. He swallowed reflexively and touched her hand. She hadn’t been the one in his dream, this woman he shared his bed with but not his life. His wife, standing at the periphery, an observer to the motions of the Vongola. He had acknowledged this at his parents’ anniversary party, but he felt it more keenly now, how Maria’s position was a result of his own faults—he had cast her there, had slid a wall between them, dividing his love for her from his love for his family.

He looked at her in the darkness, his eyes adjusting in increments and making out her golden head against the pillow. He contemplated reaching for her.

But Mukuro’s voice was still an echo in his head, making his stomach clench with an unidentifiable emotion.

He brushed his hand over hers. “It’s nothing,” he said, and rolled away.

***

“Aren’t you a little old to be having such vivid dreams?”

Tsuna, hovering in the middle of the room, felt his face grow hot, and it had nothing do with the dying will flame blazing at his forehead. He landed on his feet, letting the flame grow dim and sputter out. Without the calming energy of his hyper dying will, his body tensed, still mortified that Mukuro had caught him in such a state. Mukuro’s question hung unanswered between them as he turned to face his visitor and slid his mittens from his hands. Mukuro had just stepped off the elevator.

He had never been to Tsuna’s battle chamber before. It was located several levels below the mansion. Tsuna had assumed, due to the nature of his incarceration, Mukuro was uncomfortable with the underground facilities. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

“That was none of your business.” He pocketed his mittens before crossing his arms, feeling far too much like a child caught misbehaving.

“But wasn’t it you who missed my late night calls?”

Tsuna avoided eye contact and slumped down into the chair against the left wall. “I said I wanted us to be friends. That doesn’t mean you should only drop by when I’m unconscious.”

Mukuro moved forward in measured steps, as if Tsuna were to be approached with caution, like a skittish cat. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, to goad me, not to make conversation.”

“Why won’t you look at me, Tsunayoshi?”

Tsuna lifted his head and hitched an eyebrow. He hadn’t been afraid of Mukuro for some time, and it was not fear of the man that made him apprehensive now.

It was fear for what he might feel, fear of remembering how his body had ached for hours after he’d awoken, unable to fall asleep again for the way Mukuro’s voice, the mere memory of it, had washed across his skin. And how, even now, Mukuro’s eyes burned despite the easy smile on his lips.

It was unfamiliar and strange, and he resented with far less venom than he ought to have that he didn’t feel this way for his wife. Instead, his anger seemed to be absurdly misplaced, flaring without permission every time Tsuna thought about the intensity of those eyes, glazed with desire, on that bed between Ken and Chikusa, possibly even Chrome, bodies twined... He blushed so hard that he felt the tips of his ears grow hot.

Mukuro stood before him, head cocked, lips quirked in a knowing smile. He leaned over. Tsuna pressed back against his chair and looked away. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Mukuro whispered.

“N-noth—” Tsuna’s mouth snapped shut when Mukuro gripped his chin and kissed him.

The touch went straight to his groin. Mukuro parted his mouth, breath warm against Tsuna’s skin. His tongue swiped along the swell of Tsuna’s bottom lip. Tsuna groaned helplessly before rallying his self-control and jerking away. He stumbled to his feet and staggered away like a drunken man, putting space between them.

“What—what are you doing?” He resisted the urge to touch his mouth.

Mukuro straightened, and Tsuna must have indulged the less rational part of his brain much too often lately because he suddenly thought it unfair how such a skinny man could make a simple gesture so graceful. Mukuro stepped forward, broad shoulders relaxed beneath his shirt. The top couple buttons were undone, exposing the hollow of his throat. Okay, so Mukuro wasn’t as skinny as he used to be, but it was still ridiculous how flustered Tsuna became just looking at him.

“Serving my boss,” Mukuro said, looking amused by Tsuna’s reaction.

“That’s not funny,” Tsuna said, stepping back to maintain the distance between them.

“I don’t believe ‘funny’ is what I was aiming for. What are you afraid of?”

That was a question he had no desire to revisit. Tsuna squared his shoulders. This was getting out of hand. “That’s enough. You’re dismissed.”

Mukuro’s smile was just shy of indulgent. Then he chuckled and turned away. “Very well, Tsunayoshi.”

When the elevator doors closed with a soft chime, Tsuna returned to his chair and collapsed into it, mouth dry.

***

Mukuro became a frequent presence during Tsuna’s day, much like a poltergeist that refused to be exorcised. He invaded the office during Tsuna’s morning tea, permeating the room with the silence of his presence. He hovered at dinner, subtly goading, the timbre of his voice an unacceptable distraction that Tsuna tried his best to ignore. He observed Tsuna’s training in the afternoons, long limbs draped in a chair against the wall as Tsuna’s flames wreathed the room in heat and color.

It was driving Tsuna a little mad and naturally, someone was bound to get suspicious. Specifically, someone as neurotically observant of Tsuna as his Storm Guardian.

Tsuna wandered through the many hallways of the mansion, heading towards Yamamoto’s dojo in search of Reborn. He recalled Reborn mentioning something that morning about visiting the dojo, but he couldn’t be sure because his mind had been elsewhere (until Reborn had knocked it back into place with a whack to the side of his head). At the echo of a raised voice, Tsuna’s steps faltered.

It sounded like Gokudera, which was typical for any given afternoon, especially around Yamamoto’s quarters. He picked up his feet again, prepared to intercept what sounded like another building argument between his two closest friends (or rather, another one-sided argument in which Gokudera shouted and Yamamoto did his best to dodge). But then a second voice replied, low, far more deliberate, and Tsuna froze.

The words being exchanged carried clearly now without the click of Tsuna’s shoes on the marble floors.

“Why does it make you so angry?” Mukuro asked.

Tsuna winced at the ridicule in his voice. The real question, he thought, was why people weren’t capable of having private conversations and other... private matters in the confines of a closed space. Tsuna slumped against the wall and debated whether or not to announce his presence or to turn back and search elsewhere for his elusive tutor.

“I know him,” Gokudera all but snarled. “I know him better than you ever will. So just leave him alone.”

“Does it bother you so much?” In spite of his better judgment, Tsuna strained to hear Mukuro’s soft words. “To know the Sky is beyond your reach?”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Gokudera said, his voice accompanied by the sound of shuffling feet. “Leave him alone. He’s not interested, you slippery bastard. The Tenth might not be in love with Maria, but if he was going to look elsewhere for it, he wouldn’t damn well come to you.”

“Oh? And who might he seek out? You? You’re a little late, Storm guardian.”

Tsuna stumbled back a step. Several things struck him at once.

The first was that the others had noticed he wasn’t in love with Maria. This, he allowed, was inevitable. Tsuna couldn’t help it; no amount of guilt could make him look at her and feel the way he’d once felt when he looked at Kyoko.

The second was his instant agreement with Gokudera’s assertion; it had been so reflexively defensive that he knew it was a lie.

He wavered at the impact of that knowledge.

He loved Maria. But he had never been in love with her. And if ever the thought to stray had suggested itself, the first face that rose to Tsuna’s mind was that of his Mist guardian. Mukuro’s face, weary, unguarded, as it had been innumerable times in lucid dreams. And Mukuro’s voice, disembodied, breathing shivers down his spine.

There was a moment of silence, Tsuna frozen in place. Then a furiously hissed, “You fucking bastard!” before the distinct sounds of a physical altercation. He didn’t want the argument escalating into something that might include explosions and illusions so he straightened off the wall and cleared his throat.

“Oi, Reborn! Where are you?” he shouted, and feigned surprise when he rounded the corner to see Gokudera with his fists wrapped around Mukuro’s collar, and Mukuro looking as pleased and unruffled as ever.

***

It was the same dream, but with one significant alteration. There was no mystery as to whose slender fingers were curled over the jut of his hipbones.

His mouth burned kisses up Tsuna’s chest, his body a warm weight in the cradle of Tsuna’s thighs. Lips settled against his; he tasted tart and sweet at once, and his hands moved across Tsuna’s skin in steady, fervent caresses. There were no teasing phantom touches this time; Tsuna had the creeping suspicion that this was not entirely the product of his fantasies alone.

Rough palms tugged at his thighs, encouraging them to wrap around the other man’s hips. Tsuna could no more stop himself from acquiescing than he could arching up and writhing with abandon, biting his lip to keep from crying out because of the lingering fear of what he might say, of whose name was branded into his tongue.

He felt the familiar coils of building release in his gut just as damp lips passed up his jaw, and Mukuro whispered, “Come to me, Tsunayoshi.”

Tsuna opened his eyes. He stared unblinking up at the canopy of his bed, breath shallow, his body aching with the sudden loss of contact. Beside him, Maria lay on her stomach, eyes still closed, and her breathing steady in deep sleep.

Very carefully, he slipped from the bed. His bare feet were silent on the thick carpeting.

The halls were empty. His heart jumped in his chest at the blocks of shadow that fell across his path—bookshelves, end tables, oversized vases that his imagination morphed into the shapes of his guardians, manifesting from darkened corners to reprimand him for what he was about to do.

His pulse seemed unnaturally loud in his ears. He didn’t know what compelled him to continue moving forward instead of returning to his room and the soft curves of his wife’s embrace. He wondered briefly if perhaps Mukuro had finally possessed him after all, but no, his thoughts were clear if a little apprehensive. That was an excuse he wouldn’t be able to use for willfully seeking out Mukuro’s bed.

***

“Tradition is as good as Mafia law,” Dino had said. Alliances by marriage were not to be taken lightly or made in doubt. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have his options, as Reborn, ever Tsuna’s source for Mafia protocols obscure or otherwise, had helpfully pointed out.

“It’s less a tradition, more a... habit,” Reborn said. He smirked at Tsuna’s spluttering.

Dino grimaced. “Some bosses marry for love and they’re lucky to do so. But for the most part, the boss’s marriage has traditionally been for the benefit of the family as a whole. The Vongola are the most powerful family in Europe. To be honest, an arranged marriage probably wasn’t even necessary.”

Tsuna tried very hard—and failed—to not resent them for telling him this now, three years after the engagement had been arranged without his consent.

“But what’s done is done. If you marry Maria, it’ll ensure the alliance of our families long after we’re gone. Your family loves you, Tsuna. They’ll love you regardless of whether or not you break the engagement. And they will never forsake you or deny you the right to seek love elsewhere, if you can’t find it with your wife.” Dino had the courtesy to blush at his own words, and look away when Tsuna tried to disappear between the chair cushions.

“I’m sorry,” Tsuna said, half mumbling. “This is just... so different. I never really wanted to marry. Actually, I don’t think I knew what I wanted to do at all. I just knew marriage probably wasn’t it, what with Dad never being around.” The best he’d hoped for, before Reborn, was to finish school and make a decent living to support himself and his mother. It had, at the time, felt like such a monumental challenge.

“You’re a good man, Tsuna,” Dino said.

“You are a good man,” Reborn agreed, which made Tsuna twitch and wait for the catch. “But tradition and loyalty run deep in Iemitsu. It was the reason he couldn’t be there for you or your mother as much as he would have liked. He had his responsibilities, just as you do now.”

“Reborn,” Dino said, wincing at Reborn’s implacable tone. “Look, Tsuna, this is going to sound horrible to you, but infidelity in an arranged marriage is a habit the families involved have come to accept. It’s practically a tradition in its own right—not one spoken about in polite company but still one that no one will deny you. Love between a boss and his wife—romantic love, I mean—is an anomaly. Or maybe luck, I suppose. Maria knows this as well and she wouldn’t challenge your... er. Your right.” He looked away, his discomfort evident only in the downcast of his eyes. “I guess... if you marry Maria, I hope you’ll find some measure of love with her.”

There was doubt in his voice, and Tsuna understood why. If three years of engagement hadn’t cultivated romantic love, then there was little hope that an exchange of vows would cure the problem.

***

Mukuro was waiting outside his room. Tsuna shuffled to a stop at the sight of his tall silhouette, knowing this time that it wasn’t just a projection of his fears. Mukuro stepped forward, hand extended.

Insanity seemed to be the prevalent state of mind as he took Mukuro’s hand. Just that minor contact made his breath quicken.

Mukuro led him away from his room, presumably because his subordinates were sleeping there. Tsuna allowed himself to be pulled along the corridor, which was occasionally lit by a dim sconce. He watched in the brief intervals of illumination the paleness of Mukuro’s skin and the tousled fall of black hair. He’d left his nightshirt behind (if he slept with one at all) and Tsuna’s hands itched with a need beyond all reasoning to touch his bare skin.

They finally reached an open door, one Tsuna recognized to be a standard guest bedroom. The door had barely shut behind them before Mukuro pulled Tsuna against him and muffled his gasp with his mouth. His lips were soft; he tasted just as he had in their dream. Tsuna pressed close and forgot to be embarrassed when he strung his fingers through Mukuro’s hair and moaned into his mouth.

Mukuro’s kisses were dizzying; he kissed with more conviction than Tsuna had ever thought him capable of—devouring, consuming, like a drowning man breaking surface. Like a snake whose teeth has just latched its prey.

Tsuna fumbled with his clothes, inelegant, all thumbs, like it was his first time again, except he was more at risk of messing the front of his pajamas than an anxiety-induced loss of erection. Mukuro smiled against his mouth and pushed Tsuna’s shirt off his shoulders. He raked blunt nails down Tsuna’s back; Tsuna arched against him, lightheaded, too much heat and not enough oxygen.

Mukuro licked at the corner of Tsuna’s mouth and slipped his hands beneath the waistband of Tsuna’s pajamas, sliding both his boxers and pajamas off his hips. They pooled around his ankles and he kicked them off in the direction his shirt had gone. Mukuro smoothed his palms down the small of Tsuna’s back before gripping his buttocks and pulling him tight against him. Tsuna panted against his cheek, his cock desperate for friction between his stomach and the soft cotton of Mukuro’s pants.

“Mukuro,” he whispered, the breathy quality of his voice surprising him. There was need there, like the manic undertones of an addict on the verge of withdrawal; it was completely unbefitting of the Vongola boss. At the moment, Tsuna couldn’t have cared less.

He gripped Mukuro’s shoulders, unable to help the way his hips jerked, the way he wanted to throw a leg around Mukuro’s hip and grind himself into completion. Desire burned away his inhibitions, his doubts sifting through Mukuro’s fingers like so much ash. Mukuro chuckled in his ear, one hand fumbling with something in his pocket that Tsuna couldn’t see.

Tsuna had little idea what he was doing and, in this way, he supposed it was like a first time again. After all, Mukuro’s cock pressed against his belly, hot behind the thin barrier of cloth, was certainly a novelty. As was Mukuro’s chest, flat and hard against his, moisture accumulating where skin pressed to skin, so close that each breath of air rocked them both. So close that he could drag his nose through Mukuro’s hair and smell the lavender shampoo that Chrome liked to buy (they—the guardians, the family—shopped together, dined together, wreaked havoc in the alleys behind warehouses together), and Mukuro wasn’t picky enough to dispute.

Tsuna trailed fingers along Mukuro’s collarbones before tucking his hand beneath Mukuro’s chin and cupping his jaw. He dipped his head and traced with his tongue the fading scars that ran in a ring around Mukuro’s neck, the last physical evidence of his time with the Vendici.

Impatient, he ground his hips against Mukuro’s in urgent little circles, held from moving too ardently by Mukuro’s hand on his backside and the relative stillness with which Mukuro held his own faintly trembling body. When Mukuro finally shed his pants, Tsuna opened his mouth against Mukuro’s shoulder and groaned at the direct contact.

He arched his back, one hand carding through dark bangs and his other against Mukuro’s jaw, turning his face so that Tsuna could press their mouths together again, lips parted, damp breaths loud in the heavy silence. Mukuro slid a thigh between his legs, the hand on his buttock tightening before something wet teased at the skin just behind his balls before trailing back to circle his entrance.

Tsuna jerked against him, eyes flying open. “What are you...?”

Mukuro laughed quietly against his mouth and pressed one slick fingertip against the tight bundle of skin. “So naïve,” he whispered, before sucking Tsuna’s tongue into his mouth and biting down, just enough to sting.

Tsuna felt his groin burn with the need for release, but he turned his face away anyway and rubbed his sore tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Mukuro-sa-ah!” Mukuro had pressed his fingertip in; Tsuna arched against him, buttocks clenching at the strange sensation.

“Yes, Tsunayoshi,” Mukuro whispered. “Say my name like that.”

“Mukuro-san, wait,” Tsuna said. He hadn’t been acting on much more than impulse and lust when he’d left his bed. He closed his eyes, dragging in air to try and get his brain back in working order. But Mukuro pressed deeper and Tsuna yelped; it felt far thicker than any finger had a right to.

“Open for me,” Mukuro said, and damned if the timbre of his voice didn’t make Tsuna’s legs turn to jelly.

Tsuna grabbed at handfuls of hair and tugged, unable to do anything else with his hands as Mukuro introduced a second finger. “Oh God...” He was stiff against Mukuro’s chest, his flagging erection wedged between them.

Then Mukuro twisted his fingers and Tsuna’s entire body went rigid. Mukuro smirked and licked the shell of his ear. “Now do you want me to wait?”

“Nnfgg.” It was too much—too much and not enough and his cock seemed to agree because it swelled again, demanding attention. He didn’t know if he should rub forward or push backward so he said to hell with it and parted his legs, letting Mukuro have his way. He tilted his head back and blinked blearily up at the dark ceiling, fingers curling against Mukuro’s chest. He could feel Mukuro’s eyes on him, quietly intense, watching as he struggled to catch his breath between indecent noises when Mukuro’s fingers pressed inside him, just so.

Mukuro’s mouth found the column of his neck, lips dancing over his leaping pulse. His tongue lapped at his Adam’s apple before licking a searing line down to his collarbones. Tsuna wished for a muzzle, duct tape, anything to stop those embarrassing noises in the back of his throat. His lower body scrabbled for firmer contact, Mukuro’s hipbone digging into his pelvis even as he rotated his hips with frantic inelegance. He could feel Mukuro’s knuckles against the back of his balls, those long fingers as deep as they could go.

Then his fingers slid free and Tsuna’s body clamped down on reflex, grasping at the sudden empty space. “Mukuro,” he whispered, impatient.

Mukuro smiled against his neck. His hands palmed Tsuna’s buttocks before smoothing down the backs of his thighs. Grasping firmly, he hauled Tsuna up and against him. Tsuna wrapped his legs around Mukuro’s waist, reacting on instinct, letting the intuition he was supposedly so well known for guide him (although he doubted this was what Reborn had in mind). His mind felt fuzzy, but his body felt attuned to every shift of Mukuro’s weight, every touch, every skim of fingers against skin, the thick heat of Mukuro’s erection caught between them, the damp head nudging at his own. He closed his eyes, gave over to the vertigo, the sense of still being in a dream, one as tactile and authentic as only Mukuro could create.

Mukuro crossed the brief distance to the bed, Tsuna wrapped around him, ankles locked at his back as he ground down, unable to remain still. He wormed a hand between them, his fingers stroking the side of Mukuro’s length. Mukuro’s eyelids fluttered and a pleased smile turned the corners of his lips. Tsuna dipped his head and kissed him, wanting to feel this small happiness against his mouth.

When Mukuro lowered him to the bed, he scooted back until he was centered and then... swallowed uncertainly. Instinct could only guide him so far, as he had no clue what to do next, and recalling what he did in bed with Maria would probably be in poor taste at the moment.

Fortunately, Mukuro seemed to know what he was doing. He pushed at Tsuna’s legs and Tsuna opened eagerly, spreading his thighs and letting Mukuro maneuver him, hooking his knees over Mukuro’s shoulders. It was awkward, made even more so when Mukuro leaned forward and nearly lifted his hips off the mattress completely. When something thick and hot pressed against him, he sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

After several seconds, during which Mukuro held completely still, Tsuna cracked an eye open. Mukuro was watching him, brows slightly furrowed.

“Relax, Tsunayoshi,” he said, and stroked two fingers down Tsuna’s ass. Tsuna gasped, his body shuddering. “You’ll like this.” The promise in his voice was enough for Tsuna to press down, seeking more.

“You’ve done this before,” Tsuna whispered, and had little idea what had prompted him to speak those words. Mukuro’s lips drifted across his cheekbone.

“Are you jealous?” he said, voice laced with amusement.

Tsuna licked his lips before he angled his head just enough to catch Mukuro’s mouth. He bit lightly at Mukuro’s bottom lip, letting it slide between his teeth before releasing it. “No,” he lied.

Mukuro smirked. He dragged his tongue down Tsuna’s jaw and positioned himself against Tsuna’s entrance.

“Why?” Tsuna whispered, before he lost his nerve. He expected Mukuro would interpret the question.

Mukuro stilled, his gaze finding Tsuna’s again. Then, instead of answering, he pushed forward. Tsuna stiffened, jaw tightening, fists curled around the crisp bed sheets that smelled like detergent and baby powder. It stung, the pain of being stretched in degrees momentarily superseding what pleasure there had been before. But it wasn’t an unbearable pain, not the kind of pain that immobilized limbs, the kind of pain wrought from rings and boxes and fear for one’s family.

Mukuro rested his forehead against Tsuna’s. Tsuna tried to breathe with the thin air between them, his body bent in half, his knees up by his ears. He wanted to trust Mukuro and, for the most part, he did. But there was still that tiny seed of suspicion, that maybe what he was doing wasn’t just a monumental mistake, but one that might cost him more than Maria’s affections. Doubts swam behind his eyelids as Mukuro pressed in, burying himself in Tsuna’s body until sharp hips molded to the curve of his buttocks.

Then Mukuro, body trembling with restraint, whispered, “Perhaps my desire to possess you has gotten the better of me.”

Tsuna’s eyes flew open as Mukuro pulled back and rocked into him. He gasped, crying out at the burn of skin, the thick slide of Mukuro’s cock. Mukuro’s words had lodged somewhere in the vicinity of Tsuna’s chest, and he tucked them away, to be examined at a later date, when Mukuro wasn’t in and over and around him, when every thrust inside him wasn’t shattering a little more of his coherence. He tilted his hips as high as they would go, Mukuro shoving into him faster, his quick, shallow breaths growing ragged against Tsuna’s lips.

Tsuna lifted his head, pinched the skin of Mukuro’s neck between his teeth and sucked. His fingers dug into Mukuro’s arms until he felt certain the skin would bruise, overcome with the sudden and strange need to mark that pale skin, to bite and raise welts and possess Mukuro as surely as Mukuro possessed him. It was unfair, he thought, that his signature on a document had bound his life and body to someone, and that his heart should only now insist he reconsider that bond.

Did it matter if Mukuro felt the same, he wondered. Was this little more than curiosity assuaged? Or had Mukuro sought his company at the betrayal of another as well? Tsuna thought of Ken and Chikusa, curled around each other in Mukuro’s bed, and bit down harder.

The sliver of lucidity he still had left suggested he was probably being irrational. Perhaps Mukuro shared little else than comfort in a nearby body when sleeping, having spent so long in solitary confinement. Tsuna recalled how Mukuro’s brow had furrowed in his sleep, too exhausted to expend the energy to quell burgeoning demons.

Tsuna traced the raised line of a scar over Mukuro’s bicep with his thumb; Mukuro’s body was like a map, tracking his journey from the experiments in his childhood up through his time in the Vendici prison and the missions he’d painstakingly fulfilled in order to earn his freedom. A lifetime of pain carved so deeply into his skin that they chased him into dreams, where Mukuro could at least force them away in favor of idle exchange on the shore of some distant beach, with Tsuna of all people.

He traced all the scars he could reach with his hands and the scars on Mukuro’s neck with his tongue. And, just in case someone else would see his body, Tsuna left his own scars as well. He felt Mukuro tremble against him, his rhythm fracturing like Tsuna’s heart. Tsuna’s head fell back against the pillow and he looked up to find Mukuro still watching him, damp lips parted, the mismatched colors of his eyes indistinguishable in the dark.

The heat grew overwhelming, his nails sliding on skin damp with sweat, his orgasm corkscrewing ever tighter. Mukuro lowered his head to breathe into his hair as his entire body grew taut and he shoved deep, once, body shuddering. Tsuna felt him pulse inside him, thoughts unraveling at the knowledge, before he wiggled his hips and demanded more. Mukuro chuckled against his hair, sounding exhausted although, for once, it was an exhaustion Tsuna felt happy for.

Mukuro eased back and Tsuna winced as he lowered his legs, which had cramped in the awkward position. Leaning back on his knees between Tsuna’s sprawled legs, he took Tsuna’s erection in hand. Tsuna closed his eyes and made an appreciative sound, his release mounting, every nerve ending tightening, crackling with anticipation. Then something wet slid over the tip and Tsuna’s eyes flew open to find Mukuro bent over him, tongue wrapped around him. Tsuna gasped, body arching off the sheets, his vision fading to white.

Mukuro had pulled back, hand still moving, but he was licking his lips thoughtfully, as if having caught a bit on his tongue. Tsuna groaned at the sight and threw an arm over his face, dragging in much needed air.

“Oh my god,” he managed to say, when Mukuro’s hand finally fell away. Mukuro arranged himself on the mattress beside him, lifting his arms above his head in a languid stretch. Tsuna stared up at the shadows carved across the ceiling and breathed. It seemed all he was capable of at the moment, the steady inhalation and exhalation of air.

He finally shifted onto his side, ignoring the gritty feel of his skin and the soreness from being taken with such force. Mukuro’s eyes were closed but Tsuna doubted he was asleep.

Carefully, he placed his palm on Mukuro’s chest. Mukuro didn’t stir. When he opened his mouth to speak, Mukuro’s hand lifted to dust his cheek.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

Tsuna felt glad for the reprieve. He nodded and closed his eyes. Cleaning up could wait another couple hours, when he’d have to get up and return to his bed and his wife.

***

Betrayal, as Tsuna could only brand it as such, had effectively dammed up the remainder of what comfort had lingered between Tsuna and Maria. Those small privileges that came with intimacy and affection between a husband and wife had all but washed away, like sediment adrift with the tide. He could barely touch Maria now, not for want or desire, but because he knew with the utmost certainty that she was aware of what he’d done, of what he continued to do. And because, if he tried, he was afraid he would think of Mukuro instead and he couldn’t shame either of them that way.

Even though Tsuna had never thought to take a mistress, even if Maria never confronted him about it, even if she viewed it in the skewed perspective of one raised by the Mafia as Tsuna’s right as boss... he knew that at least one of the reasons why Maria had married him with a smile in her eyes was because she had believed he wouldn’t. But Tsuna would deal with the guilt of his own sins, just as he’d accepted the sins of all his predecessors when he’d become the Vongola Tenth.

In the days and weeks following that first night with Mukuro, he thought of all the misgivings he’d had during the years of his engagement, of how often he had nearly called Dino to cancel it altogether. He thought of Kyoko, whom he’d left behind because, even though letting her go had torn him apart, she was still too precious to drag into such a dangerous world.

He thought of how, if he’d married her instead, he wouldn’t have desired Mukuro. He wouldn’t have betrayed her.

He thought of how, maybe, that was a lie.

***

There was a knock at his door before it opened on quiet hinges. Mukuro entered, lips quirked in greeting. Tsuna liked to imagine those smiles were less for show these days, that his nightmares were fading as surely as the scars on his skin. Tsuna had given voice to those thoughts once. Mukuro had laughed, hitched a mocking eyebrow, and called him sentimental.

Tsuna sat in a sofa against the right wall, with his feet elevated on the coffee table and a pile of papers documenting the latest proposal from his accountants. Mukuro sat down beside him, silent, rubbing deliberately at a spot on his hip where Tsuna had gripped him a bit too hard.

Tsuna reached for the pile of mail on his coffee table and scanned through them quickly. A letter from Ryohei in Japan; some obscure demand from the Varia; an invitation from Dino for him and Maria to join them at a football game. Maria, who was just as much a Vongola now as he was. And as such, Tsuna would pull her in from where she lingered at the margins of the family, where he had inadvertently cast her because of his own numerous faults. He would make amends and, eventually, he would broach the divide between them and encourage her to pursue love as well.

Tsuna set his mail aside and pushed his documents away for later. Then he grabbed Mukuro by his tie and reeled him in for a kiss.

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“Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.” ~Marcus Aurelius

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The End

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A/N: The amazing aerialite drew some lovely fanart for this fic, and you can see it here: khrminibang. dreamwidth. org / 2076. html (remove spaces)