i don't even know, man
Today was not Clifford D. Louis’ day.
Really. First, his maid had neglected to wake him (…or not. His clock died) and he was late (he sped through ten red lights, and traffic fines were getting expensive these days) to a very, very important meeting (with Panther. It ended up Patrick was in such a frenzy because his grandmother’s oatmeal was so delicious…not.) before he received a summons from Mr. Federico, boss of the largest crime syndicate (the Orsinis) in New York.
He was rather insulted that he was “summoned”, but he realized it was within his best interest to Not Complain when five large men were pointing guns at him. For a moment, he recalled that blond Japanese bastard and rolled his eyes (on the inside). Hiruma would probably (definitely) do something about it, but Clifford really wasn’t in the habit of carrying AK-47’s with him. Just what types of firearm laws do they have over there? he thought, making a mental note to Google it.
It really was not his day, he mused as he settled into his large, comfy, first class airplane seat. Playing Nanny during his break was not on his top ten to-do list. According to Don Federico, the (distant) cousin of the Vongola Decimo was a scrawny teenager and wouldn’t it be nice if, as a sign of good will, the Orsinis sent a man to guard him? Clifford wondered why he accepted the job in the first place and then he slid down his luxurious bed-chair and remembered oh yeah, it pays for all of this.
Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, Clifford decided it would be a good idea to read the file about the newly-dubbed Vongola Brat he received. He pulled out his Very Inconspicuous black folder and opened it, frowning at its weight.
...Or lack of it. The folder had only one sheet of paper (the only thing on there were the characters 小早川瀬那) and there wasn’t even a picture! No wonder Mr. Federico was so desperate to recruit him all those years ago; without his talent the Orsinis would have been absorbed by another group already. But the saying “if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself” was true, and Clifford resigned himself to a few hours of researching this mysterious person.
Seriously, what was the matter with Japan? All he was doing was asking if they knew what the paper said, and they all ran away from screaming something about the devil. Really, they couldn’t help a foreigner out? Mr. Federico had “forgotten” Clifford, while fluent in conversational Japanese and hiragana, could not read kanji to save his life. Even with his near-perfect memory, there was just something about those intricate characters and their three different pronunciations that threw him off. So who better to ask than a native? Now, just to find one that didn’t run away…
Considering this小早川瀬那 was (supposedly) a high schooler, it made sense for Clifford to visit the only high school he deemed worthy of his presence (or actually knew the address to) - Deimon High. He flagged down a taxi and relayed his destination before he crossed his arms and relaxed. The driver, for some reason, looked as if Clifford was asking him to drive to Hell. The Japanese were quite strange. He shrugged and leaned back into the seat.
As they were passing through the city, Clifford decided it would be an opportune moment to ask the cabbie to help him. After all, the driver couldn’t really run away while driving. “Hey, how do you read these characters?,” he asked. It stung his pride to not know something, but it couldn’t really be helped in this sort of situation.
Was this小早川瀬那 some type of monster? Clifford really wanted to know why the instant the driver saw the kanji he looked ready to faint. “D-do you ha-have some bus-business with Ko-ko-kobayakawa-s-s-s-s-an?,” the elderly man stuttered. Clifford raised an eyebrow, making sure his movement was visible from the rear-view mirror.
“Yes,” he stated stoically, “I would like to talk to…Kobayakawa-san.”
Suddenly, the taxi took a sharp left, followed by a dizzying pattern of right-left-left-left-circle-diagonal-right-backwards-triangle-left. The taxi screeched to a halt in front of a shady-looking building that Clifford was Pretty Sure was not Deimon High (but the amount of guns that fucking blond elf possessed made it possible Deimon High was in fact, a gang-member breeding ground). Pulling out his cellphone, the cabbie’s fingers twitched as he pressed in a few numbers.
“He-he-hello? It’s m-m-m-me, Ryou. There’s a m-m-man who looks like tr-tr-trouble ask-ki-king for Ko-ko-kobayakawa-san,” he mumbled into the speaker.
A short pause, a faint, “Kekekekekeke”, and then, “I unders-s-s-tand. I’m in front of the Mo-mo-momokyoukai base.”
Clifford wondered what a high school had to do with peaches. * And why did “Kobayakawa” sound vaguely familiar?
“Ryou”-san turned to face Clifford. Smiling weakly, he said, “This is your destination, sir.”
He ignored the incredibly suspicious feel of the entire situation, and exited the vehicle. No risk, no gain, right? Standing next to the car, he asked, “I understand, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing! It’s free! Nice to meet you! Bye!” was all Clifford heard as the taxi speeded away. Clifford checked his wallet, and thought it was rather fortunate his ride was free. He only had credit cards in his wallet, after all. …which meant he had no money to bribe those men approaching him. Dressed in suits with sunglasses on their face or head, the rather large group of 15 looked like Trouble.
Clifford started thinking: The approaching group looked all muscle, but Clifford wasn’t one to judge on appearances. He was unarmed, with no extortion money, and his laptop (and thus his access to the oh-so-useful-for-blackmail internet) was in his suitcase (which was being delivered to his hotel), and was standing alone on an abandoned street facing men that may-or-may-not be carrying weapons. He did the only logical choice: he turned around and ran with all the might of his 4.2 second 40-yard dash.
So, he thought as he was running for his life, why is the yakuza chasing me? He turned right and then left and then right, arbitrarily choosing between the two directions. A near-perfect memory was useful in navigation, but not when one had absolutely no idea of the street layout to begin with. However, he began to see signs of actual civilization and was relieved at the prospect of reaching the city. Surely those yakuza thugs wouldn’t open fire in the middle of a crowd, right?
He stopped sprinting as he (finally) neared a (kinda) busy street. Clifford knew he stuck out with his blond hair and above average height, and really didn’t need to add “running like a mad man” to that list. Although he had outrun the men in suits, he knew they would catch up eventually, and he had to blend in before they did so. He entered a random department store (department store! For the public! It was degrading to shop somewhere so common) and quickly headed towards the men’s floor. Hopefully there would be clothes in his size and hats that he could purchase. He didn’t notice the small video camera in the corner that seemed to focus on and follow his every move.
These men had no subtlety whatsoever. They walked in unison, large bodies knocking down clothing racks and feet plodding along the squeaky clean floors. And really, how had they found him? It was like they were guided by the devil himself or something. Clifford sighed, pulled on a beanie, and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Apparently he blended in too well, as demonstrated when a young male bumped into him (Clifford wasn’t sure if he should feel complimented he was so good at hiding, or insulted the teenager thought he was a lump of clothing). However, the boy quickly realized that the-thing-he-bumped-into was in fact, human, and started bowing nervously.
“Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god, I’m really very, very sorry, and uh, please don’t kill me, because I’m really sorry I bumped into you. Are you okay? Are you hur- I mean, of course you’re hurt; I bumped into you and I’m really sorry about tha-”
This kid was not shutting up. Ugh. Not to mention, his rather frantic apologies were attracting attention, and not the good kind. Clifford raised his hands, and tried to calm the anxious teenager. “No really, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Now, if you don’t mind shutting-”
“…Clifford-san?”
Wait…this boy knew him? Well, of course he knew him! Not that he was doing something as plebian as bragging, of course, but his face had been broadcasted on television channels all over the world during the World Cup. This boy must be fan of hi-
“Why are you dressed so funny?”
-or not. Clifford turned his Ice Glare on, and made sure his head was upright so he could look down past his nose at The Boy.
“Oh my god that was so rude, I’m really sorry about that it just came out of my mouth because I was so surprised at seeing you here, and please forgive me and don’-”
Really. He held up a hand to cut the rambling boy off before he could, well, continue rambling. There was one sentence in his little speech that caught his attention, and he looked at the boy properly. Why did he look so familiar? He was almost reminded of the blond elf bastard with that spiky hair, but this kid was too short and too nice. Short? Nice? Innocent looking? He suddenly realized he was looking at Japan’s star running back.
It really was a good thing that Eyeshield 21 could run just as fast as he could, because those suspicious men had found him and he had just gotten -wait, what his name? Kobe-something Sena, he thought, - involved in this rather dangerous situation. He didn’t really care about the midget, but he had the inkling that Spencer would be crestfallen if anything happened to the brat (not that he cared what Spencer thought. It was just that a distracted Panther meant a weaker team, right?) …and he really didn’t feel the need to apologize to the elf bastard.
“C’mon, let’s go,” Clifford said solemnly. He grabbed Sena’s wrist (damn, he really is tiny) and started running towards the stairs. “Hiiiiiiiieeeeeeee, wait, where are we go-go-gooiinnnnngggg?” Sena all but screamed as he was pulled by the larger man.
He was analyzing the situation mentally, trying to decide if the better choice was to go up or down. Up, he decided, because it was quite likely there were more of the men waiting downstairs. Of course, there was always the (rather high) chance that they were also waiting upstairs, but Clifford liked to gamble. However, that running brat was not helping things with his too-loud, too-shrilly voice yapping and yapping away. These Japanese people really had no sense of danger or when to keep their mouths shut.
Really now, the midge said the weirdest things while they were running, like: “Clifford-san, why are we running away from Miyo-san and his friends?”
The tall American stared at the short boy with too-large eyes, trying to decide if he was kidding or not. Did he not see the suits? Suits meant business! Even if Koba-something knew one of the men, “Miyo” was not his friend at the moment. His contemplating look, unfortunately, had the side effect of turning the motor-mouth on again.
He was so distracted considering the amount of time and strength it would require to rip part of the running brat’s shirt (not his own shirt, of course. it was far too expensive for something like this) and stuff it into his mouth that his foot slipped on one of the steps of the staircase. Shit, he thought as he was falling backwards, I have to make sure the midget is okay. Defying multiple laws of probability, he flipped in mid-air and somehow managed to catch Sena - and land rather painfully on his back. But hey, at least Japan’s star running back was unharmed.
Thankfully the midget had the decency to get off of him (after the whole shock of the situation had worn off). Clifford groaned, knowing that their fall was more than enough time for the men in suits to catch up to him. Eyeshield 21 took his moan the wrong way, of course, and started apologizing for being born.
The blond sighed, and closed his eyes. He was going to be killed by some yakuza thugs, and the brunet shrimp was just giving him a headache. All he wanted to do was die in silence, for fuck’s sake. “Just shut up. Please,” Clifford stated.
He couldn’t escape reality forever though, and Clifford opened his eyes. However, he wasn’t expecting the men in suits to be just standing in single file. Where was the violence? Why weren’t they trying to massacre him? And why were they bowing…to the running brat? Why was this kid on such good terms with Japan’s crime syndicate?
“Kobayakawa-san, are you injured?” one of the men asked.
Wait. Hang on. Rewind a bit. Kobayakawa? Clifford was pretty damn sure that was the name on his card [at least, according to the eccentric taxi driver] and thus, the name of the Vongola Brat he had to take care of. The fuck? he thought.
And according to the scandalized look on Kobayakawa-san’s face, he had said it out loud too. Woops.
Actually, Kobayakawa Sena was not one bit related to the Vongola Decimo, Sawada Tsunayoshi (unless you went back a couple thousand years). However, it was not a difficult assumption to make, considering their similar height, build, personality and face. Even their screams of terror during punishment games (set by Hiruma Yoichi and Reborn, respectively) were similar.
After bumping into each other in the supermarket one day, the two brown-haired boys had clicked instantly. They had spent many hours bonding over obsessive friends, demonic mentors, idiot jocks. They quickly became inseparable, and even Gokudera approved of their friendship (but only after Sena had saved Tsuna from being run over by sprinting full speed and pushing him out of the way).
It was pretty ironic that Tsuna was older, because more often than not Sena was the one taking care of his socially-awkward and inept “brother”. Hiruma once remarked that even “the fucking chibi” had never been as pathetic as “the fucking wimp”. Reborn had turned to his student and demanded he reclaim the honor of the Vongola name, smacked him a few times, and then had Tsuna play a game called “Outrun the Rabid Dog.” In the end, Sena had sacrificed himself by dousing his shirt in meat sauce and running in the opposite direction to distract Cerberus (Tsuna played “Outrun the Rabid Dog While Wearing a Bone Necklace” the next day. Sena had practice).
Nobody was really surprised when the two of them, holding hands, announced to their friends that they were going out.
…to the park, of course.
Sena had insisted on going to the park, and Tsuna, feeling like an indulgent “older brother”, had agreed to go with him. Eventually they switched from the hand-holding to wrapping an arm around each other’s shoulder as they walked to the Namimori Community Park. This was the source of many rumors, including one that had played a game of Telephone by the time it reached an American mafia boss by the name of Federico Orsini.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Intel had fucked up pretty badly, Clifford thought. He would have to rectify their lack of discipline (and intelligence) when he returned to America. Still, if questioned deeply and under torture, he might admit that he had wanted to meet the infamous Vongola Decimo, but Clifford decided it was time to cut his losses and go home. But then the fidgety dwarf mentioned he was meeting his friend later and wouldn’t it be nice if you came too, Clifford-san?
Ten minutes and forty three seconds later, Clifford met the Vongola Decimo eye-to-eye. Or rather, eye-to-air, because the adolescent American towered over the Japanese teenager. The blond was struck at how similar the next leader of one of the greatest Mafia families in the world was to the one of the greatest running backs in the world, and how much both of them resembled a lost puppy.
Really. First, his maid had neglected to wake him (…or not. His clock died) and he was late (he sped through ten red lights, and traffic fines were getting expensive these days) to a very, very important meeting (with Panther. It ended up Patrick was in such a frenzy because his grandmother’s oatmeal was so delicious…not.) before he received a summons from Mr. Federico, boss of the largest crime syndicate (the Orsinis) in New York.
He was rather insulted that he was “summoned”, but he realized it was within his best interest to Not Complain when five large men were pointing guns at him. For a moment, he recalled that blond Japanese bastard and rolled his eyes (on the inside). Hiruma would probably (definitely) do something about it, but Clifford really wasn’t in the habit of carrying AK-47’s with him. Just what types of firearm laws do they have over there? he thought, making a mental note to Google it.
It really was not his day, he mused as he settled into his large, comfy, first class airplane seat. Playing Nanny during his break was not on his top ten to-do list. According to Don Federico, the (distant) cousin of the Vongola Decimo was a scrawny teenager and wouldn’t it be nice if, as a sign of good will, the Orsinis sent a man to guard him? Clifford wondered why he accepted the job in the first place and then he slid down his luxurious bed-chair and remembered oh yeah, it pays for all of this.
Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, Clifford decided it would be a good idea to read the file about the newly-dubbed Vongola Brat he received. He pulled out his Very Inconspicuous black folder and opened it, frowning at its weight.
...Or lack of it. The folder had only one sheet of paper (the only thing on there were the characters 小早川瀬那) and there wasn’t even a picture! No wonder Mr. Federico was so desperate to recruit him all those years ago; without his talent the Orsinis would have been absorbed by another group already. But the saying “if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself” was true, and Clifford resigned himself to a few hours of researching this mysterious person.
Seriously, what was the matter with Japan? All he was doing was asking if they knew what the paper said, and they all ran away from screaming something about the devil. Really, they couldn’t help a foreigner out? Mr. Federico had “forgotten” Clifford, while fluent in conversational Japanese and hiragana, could not read kanji to save his life. Even with his near-perfect memory, there was just something about those intricate characters and their three different pronunciations that threw him off. So who better to ask than a native? Now, just to find one that didn’t run away…
Considering this小早川瀬那 was (supposedly) a high schooler, it made sense for Clifford to visit the only high school he deemed worthy of his presence (or actually knew the address to) - Deimon High. He flagged down a taxi and relayed his destination before he crossed his arms and relaxed. The driver, for some reason, looked as if Clifford was asking him to drive to Hell. The Japanese were quite strange. He shrugged and leaned back into the seat.
As they were passing through the city, Clifford decided it would be an opportune moment to ask the cabbie to help him. After all, the driver couldn’t really run away while driving. “Hey, how do you read these characters?,” he asked. It stung his pride to not know something, but it couldn’t really be helped in this sort of situation.
Was this小早川瀬那 some type of monster? Clifford really wanted to know why the instant the driver saw the kanji he looked ready to faint. “D-do you ha-have some bus-business with Ko-ko-kobayakawa-s-s-s-s-an?,” the elderly man stuttered. Clifford raised an eyebrow, making sure his movement was visible from the rear-view mirror.
“Yes,” he stated stoically, “I would like to talk to…Kobayakawa-san.”
Suddenly, the taxi took a sharp left, followed by a dizzying pattern of right-left-left-left-circle-diagonal-right-backwards-triangle-left. The taxi screeched to a halt in front of a shady-looking building that Clifford was Pretty Sure was not Deimon High (but the amount of guns that fucking blond elf possessed made it possible Deimon High was in fact, a gang-member breeding ground). Pulling out his cellphone, the cabbie’s fingers twitched as he pressed in a few numbers.
“He-he-hello? It’s m-m-m-me, Ryou. There’s a m-m-man who looks like tr-tr-trouble ask-ki-king for Ko-ko-kobayakawa-san,” he mumbled into the speaker.
A short pause, a faint, “Kekekekekeke”, and then, “I unders-s-s-tand. I’m in front of the Mo-mo-momokyoukai base.”
Clifford wondered what a high school had to do with peaches. * And why did “Kobayakawa” sound vaguely familiar?
“Ryou”-san turned to face Clifford. Smiling weakly, he said, “This is your destination, sir.”
He ignored the incredibly suspicious feel of the entire situation, and exited the vehicle. No risk, no gain, right? Standing next to the car, he asked, “I understand, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing! It’s free! Nice to meet you! Bye!” was all Clifford heard as the taxi speeded away. Clifford checked his wallet, and thought it was rather fortunate his ride was free. He only had credit cards in his wallet, after all. …which meant he had no money to bribe those men approaching him. Dressed in suits with sunglasses on their face or head, the rather large group of 15 looked like Trouble.
Clifford started thinking: The approaching group looked all muscle, but Clifford wasn’t one to judge on appearances. He was unarmed, with no extortion money, and his laptop (and thus his access to the oh-so-useful-for-blackmail internet) was in his suitcase (which was being delivered to his hotel), and was standing alone on an abandoned street facing men that may-or-may-not be carrying weapons. He did the only logical choice: he turned around and ran with all the might of his 4.2 second 40-yard dash.
So, he thought as he was running for his life, why is the yakuza chasing me? He turned right and then left and then right, arbitrarily choosing between the two directions. A near-perfect memory was useful in navigation, but not when one had absolutely no idea of the street layout to begin with. However, he began to see signs of actual civilization and was relieved at the prospect of reaching the city. Surely those yakuza thugs wouldn’t open fire in the middle of a crowd, right?
He stopped sprinting as he (finally) neared a (kinda) busy street. Clifford knew he stuck out with his blond hair and above average height, and really didn’t need to add “running like a mad man” to that list. Although he had outrun the men in suits, he knew they would catch up eventually, and he had to blend in before they did so. He entered a random department store (department store! For the public! It was degrading to shop somewhere so common) and quickly headed towards the men’s floor. Hopefully there would be clothes in his size and hats that he could purchase. He didn’t notice the small video camera in the corner that seemed to focus on and follow his every move.
These men had no subtlety whatsoever. They walked in unison, large bodies knocking down clothing racks and feet plodding along the squeaky clean floors. And really, how had they found him? It was like they were guided by the devil himself or something. Clifford sighed, pulled on a beanie, and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Apparently he blended in too well, as demonstrated when a young male bumped into him (Clifford wasn’t sure if he should feel complimented he was so good at hiding, or insulted the teenager thought he was a lump of clothing). However, the boy quickly realized that the-thing-he-bumped-into was in fact, human, and started bowing nervously.
“Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god, I’m really very, very sorry, and uh, please don’t kill me, because I’m really sorry I bumped into you. Are you okay? Are you hur- I mean, of course you’re hurt; I bumped into you and I’m really sorry about tha-”
This kid was not shutting up. Ugh. Not to mention, his rather frantic apologies were attracting attention, and not the good kind. Clifford raised his hands, and tried to calm the anxious teenager. “No really, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Now, if you don’t mind shutting-”
“…Clifford-san?”
Wait…this boy knew him? Well, of course he knew him! Not that he was doing something as plebian as bragging, of course, but his face had been broadcasted on television channels all over the world during the World Cup. This boy must be fan of hi-
“Why are you dressed so funny?”
-or not. Clifford turned his Ice Glare on, and made sure his head was upright so he could look down past his nose at The Boy.
“Oh my god that was so rude, I’m really sorry about that it just came out of my mouth because I was so surprised at seeing you here, and please forgive me and don’-”
Really. He held up a hand to cut the rambling boy off before he could, well, continue rambling. There was one sentence in his little speech that caught his attention, and he looked at the boy properly. Why did he look so familiar? He was almost reminded of the blond elf bastard with that spiky hair, but this kid was too short and too nice. Short? Nice? Innocent looking? He suddenly realized he was looking at Japan’s star running back.
It really was a good thing that Eyeshield 21 could run just as fast as he could, because those suspicious men had found him and he had just gotten -wait, what his name? Kobe-something Sena, he thought, - involved in this rather dangerous situation. He didn’t really care about the midget, but he had the inkling that Spencer would be crestfallen if anything happened to the brat (not that he cared what Spencer thought. It was just that a distracted Panther meant a weaker team, right?) …and he really didn’t feel the need to apologize to the elf bastard.
“C’mon, let’s go,” Clifford said solemnly. He grabbed Sena’s wrist (damn, he really is tiny) and started running towards the stairs. “Hiiiiiiiieeeeeeee, wait, where are we go-go-gooiinnnnngggg?” Sena all but screamed as he was pulled by the larger man.
He was analyzing the situation mentally, trying to decide if the better choice was to go up or down. Up, he decided, because it was quite likely there were more of the men waiting downstairs. Of course, there was always the (rather high) chance that they were also waiting upstairs, but Clifford liked to gamble. However, that running brat was not helping things with his too-loud, too-shrilly voice yapping and yapping away. These Japanese people really had no sense of danger or when to keep their mouths shut.
Really now, the midge said the weirdest things while they were running, like: “Clifford-san, why are we running away from Miyo-san and his friends?”
The tall American stared at the short boy with too-large eyes, trying to decide if he was kidding or not. Did he not see the suits? Suits meant business! Even if Koba-something knew one of the men, “Miyo” was not his friend at the moment. His contemplating look, unfortunately, had the side effect of turning the motor-mouth on again.
He was so distracted considering the amount of time and strength it would require to rip part of the running brat’s shirt (not his own shirt, of course. it was far too expensive for something like this) and stuff it into his mouth that his foot slipped on one of the steps of the staircase. Shit, he thought as he was falling backwards, I have to make sure the midget is okay. Defying multiple laws of probability, he flipped in mid-air and somehow managed to catch Sena - and land rather painfully on his back. But hey, at least Japan’s star running back was unharmed.
Thankfully the midget had the decency to get off of him (after the whole shock of the situation had worn off). Clifford groaned, knowing that their fall was more than enough time for the men in suits to catch up to him. Eyeshield 21 took his moan the wrong way, of course, and started apologizing for being born.
The blond sighed, and closed his eyes. He was going to be killed by some yakuza thugs, and the brunet shrimp was just giving him a headache. All he wanted to do was die in silence, for fuck’s sake. “Just shut up. Please,” Clifford stated.
He couldn’t escape reality forever though, and Clifford opened his eyes. However, he wasn’t expecting the men in suits to be just standing in single file. Where was the violence? Why weren’t they trying to massacre him? And why were they bowing…to the running brat? Why was this kid on such good terms with Japan’s crime syndicate?
“Kobayakawa-san, are you injured?” one of the men asked.
Wait. Hang on. Rewind a bit. Kobayakawa? Clifford was pretty damn sure that was the name on his card [at least, according to the eccentric taxi driver] and thus, the name of the Vongola Brat he had to take care of. The fuck? he thought.
And according to the scandalized look on Kobayakawa-san’s face, he had said it out loud too. Woops.
Actually, Kobayakawa Sena was not one bit related to the Vongola Decimo, Sawada Tsunayoshi (unless you went back a couple thousand years). However, it was not a difficult assumption to make, considering their similar height, build, personality and face. Even their screams of terror during punishment games (set by Hiruma Yoichi and Reborn, respectively) were similar.
After bumping into each other in the supermarket one day, the two brown-haired boys had clicked instantly. They had spent many hours bonding over obsessive friends, demonic mentors, idiot jocks. They quickly became inseparable, and even Gokudera approved of their friendship (but only after Sena had saved Tsuna from being run over by sprinting full speed and pushing him out of the way).
It was pretty ironic that Tsuna was older, because more often than not Sena was the one taking care of his socially-awkward and inept “brother”. Hiruma once remarked that even “the fucking chibi” had never been as pathetic as “the fucking wimp”. Reborn had turned to his student and demanded he reclaim the honor of the Vongola name, smacked him a few times, and then had Tsuna play a game called “Outrun the Rabid Dog.” In the end, Sena had sacrificed himself by dousing his shirt in meat sauce and running in the opposite direction to distract Cerberus (Tsuna played “Outrun the Rabid Dog While Wearing a Bone Necklace” the next day. Sena had practice).
Nobody was really surprised when the two of them, holding hands, announced to their friends that they were going out.
…to the park, of course.
Sena had insisted on going to the park, and Tsuna, feeling like an indulgent “older brother”, had agreed to go with him. Eventually they switched from the hand-holding to wrapping an arm around each other’s shoulder as they walked to the Namimori Community Park. This was the source of many rumors, including one that had played a game of Telephone by the time it reached an American mafia boss by the name of Federico Orsini.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Intel had fucked up pretty badly, Clifford thought. He would have to rectify their lack of discipline (and intelligence) when he returned to America. Still, if questioned deeply and under torture, he might admit that he had wanted to meet the infamous Vongola Decimo, but Clifford decided it was time to cut his losses and go home. But then the fidgety dwarf mentioned he was meeting his friend later and wouldn’t it be nice if you came too, Clifford-san?
Ten minutes and forty three seconds later, Clifford met the Vongola Decimo eye-to-eye. Or rather, eye-to-air, because the adolescent American towered over the Japanese teenager. The blond was struck at how similar the next leader of one of the greatest Mafia families in the world was to the one of the greatest running backs in the world, and how much both of them resembled a lost puppy.