Chapter Text
Though Tsuna practically begs everyday for a peaceful moment to himself, he’s never happy when he receives one.
He’s learned, throughout years of body snatching junior high punks and violent babies that make torture a hobby and winged assholes that take over the multiverse, it’s safe to be suspicious. Of what he doesn’t know, so his body is constantly racked with paranoia. And that anxiety tends to peak when the house is still.
When he notices how quiet it is one summer day, the palpitations rattling his chest seem almost audible.
He’s in charge of the house and children today (Nana at a piano recital and Bianchi foraging for summer ingredients), but he’s banished the kids downstairs so he can pretend to be doing his summer work.
They were their usual rowdy selves while he struggled through his history packet. He could clearly hear the sounds of children at play just moments ago. (Lambo’s obnoxious laughter from doing something annoying, the sound of a struggle as I-Pin gets fed up with him and makes use of her training, Fran and Fuuta’s commentary and I-told-you-so. ’s when Lambo starts crying.)
But now it’s quiet and, though he yearns for it when it’s gone, he doesn’t trust silence when it’s in his house.
The dull thudding of his heart against his chest floods his ears as he walks down the stairs, skin crawling as he finds all the lights downstairs have been turned off. As he nears the bottom of the staircase he notices a flickering, orange glow coming from the direction of the living room.
Fire. his intuition screams at him, making him jump past the last couple of steps, smacking his chin against the hardwood when he inevitably lands on his face. A low moan catches in his throat as he tries to pull himself up, barely registering the coppery flavor filling his mouth. He must have (yet again) bit his tongue when he fell.
Throwing his gaze towards the living room, he’s relieved to find the orange glow is coming off an ornate candelabra sitting on the coffee table, thanking every god he knows that the living room isn’t ablaze.
The relief is replaced with confusion when he has the time to take in the rest of the scene in front of him.
Fran sits on Nana’s favorite chair, his head propped up on his hand as he leans his body against one of the chair’s arms, legs carefully crossed. A black, feather robe is wrapped around his shoulders, billowing around his thin frame and flowing down from the chair to just barely kiss the floor. A silver cigarette holder with a Pocky stick shoved in it is held daintily in his left hand.
In the dim light he appears more sinister than usual, green eyes dark as he regards the form Tsuna just notices piled at the foot of his chair.
Fuuta sits on the floor in front of Fran as if their body had been strewn like a ragdoll, mostly lying on the floor with not enough strength to properly sit. One hand propping their body up, the other pressed to their chest as if to hold their heart still, they stare up at Fran with a look of devastation. They were wearing, quite literally, a large burlap sack with jagged holes cut in it to create arm openings and a neckline.
“Darling,” a young voice croaks in what sounds like an attempt to sound gruff, cutting into the quiet and drawing Tsuna’s attention.
Lambo is lounging on the big couch to Fuuta’s right, a fake handlebar mustache pasted above his lip. His curly hair is hidden under a familiar fedora that, for his sake, Tsuna hopes Reborn doesn’t catch him in. He’s wearing a gray blazer that’s much too big on him, his arms lost in the long sleeves. Only his hand, holding an old pipe, is free from the fabric cage.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be so hasty with your words.” Lambo continues pretending to smoke from the pipe. “This is the girl our dearest, only son has fallen in love with, after all.”
Fran doesn’t spare Lambo a glance, gaze burning into Fuuta. “ Love? ” he scoffs, pulling the cigarette holder to his lips and taking an imaginary puff. “What does love have to do with any of this? We’re looking for a suitable bride for the sole heir to our fortune. This sow isn’t even suitable enough to breathe the same air as our Katsuro.”
“Madam...!” Fuuta sobs, hand gripping their burlap gown as they let out a strangled sob, tears welling in their eyes.
Fran uncrosses his legs and rises to his feet in one smooth, elegant movement. He briefly flicks the “cigarette” in Fuuta’s direction, as if flicking ash onto them, and begins to saunter away. “Remove yourself from my home. Don’t let me see your face again; I will never allow you to marry my son.”
“No! Please!” Fuuta throws themself at Fran’s feet, latching on to one of his ankles. Tears begin to roll down their blotchy, red face as they beg. “ Please , mother-in-law! Just listen for a moment!”
“Do not call me that,” Fran yanks his leg out of Fuuta’s grip, taking a single step to the side to put distance between them. “I have yet to consider you a human being, much less my son’s wife.” He flaps his robe, making it flutter dramatically as he sashays a couple steps away. “Away with you, filth. You muddy my vision by being in eyesight.”
“Oh my God ,” Tsuna utters, lisping a bit due to his injured tongue. His brows furrow and his lip curls as he tries to comprehend the display set before him. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
“We’re playing house!” Fuuta answers in a chipper tone, discarding the act of rejected daughter-in-law and sitting up, prim and proper, on the floor.
“Lambo-san’s the dad!” Lambo adds in his regular speaking voice, pulling the pipe out of his mouth and lifting the fedora off his head as if Tsuna will have trouble recognizing him with them on.
“W-What is this-” Tsuna sputters on his words as he makes vague gestures towards them. “-this... Performance? What is this dark storyline you’re acting out? This isn’t how you play house!”
“It’s how we play,” Fran says, taking another fake drag of his cigarette. He blows imaginary smoke up into the air with a weary sigh. “This way’s funner than how the kids at school play.”
“I-” Tsuna is cut off by the sound of the hallway closet opening.
He turns his head to see I-Pin walk out of the newly opened door. Her hair is slicked back and she has a fake mole drawn on her cheek. She’s wearing a blazer similar to Lambo’s, and she’s swimming in it just like him.
“Mother, Father, I’m home!” she calls, her voice lowered as far as she can get it.
Fuuta quickly throws themself back onto the floor, and she gasps when she sees them. “Darling!” she bellows, rushing over and falling to her knees beside them. She lays her hands gently on their shoulders and inspects them before raising her eyes to give Fran a horrified look. “Mother, what have you done to her?”
“What have I done?” Fran asks, looking back at her over his shoulder, completely cavalier. “What have you done bringing this boor into our home?”
Tsuna is unmoving as he watches Fran and I-Pin begin to argue back and forth, transfixed by their production. He still doesn’t understand how this can be considered “playing house”, but he may be beginning to understand why his mother is so interested in soap operas.
He pulls his legs into a cross-legged position and settles in for the show.