Chapter 75

When he was young, he remembers being full of energy. A 'handful' his mother used to call him, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't stay still in one place for long. He couldn't just concentrate on one thing. It was always two, three, and even four things he needed to do at the same time; less wouldn't be able to distract him from how loud everything was and still is. He would look at one person and know just by the state of their clothes what had they done previously if they had kids or pets.

"How?" his mother would ask. He could read in the honest confusion of her eyes and the line of her shoulders that she didn't understand. Couldn't. He knew the neighbor two doors next took care of children from a high-class family by the polished shoes she wore, just enough to be comfortable when running from place to place; the clothes she dressed, sharp but modest; her bag, wide enough for toys and snacks; and the patient, comfortable way she was around children. Everything was there for all to see.

But he was still a kid, a poor one who didn't know how to read or any fancy words that could help him, so he could only look at his mother with a perplexed look back because how could she not see?

"You're very sharp and that's good," she said, kneeling in front of him when he explained his deductions. "But you also need to be clever. And wise."

He didn't understand those words and when her mother explained them to him, he got a better grasp of their meaning but not enough. Probably understanding his plight, she nodded, and then he felt his world shift a bit, in the way it does when something important is going to happen, when she added, "Sharp is what you know now and clever would be getting to know her for her connections with a higher class."

"And wise?"

She smiled a keen smile then, the ones which at that time were not as frequent as he would have liked. "Wise would be learning from her. She may not be a teacher but the ones in her kind of profession always know how to teach the important things."

He was a kid born in Italy with an English woman as a mother, who never learned how to write Italian even if she talked perfectly. He grew up doing small jobs because he liked to learn new things and the extra money was always welcomed, even if he had to put up the good kid-act in front of old ladies just to get books on how to learn Italian.

When he was able to read, he went off to libraries as playing with other kids didn't appeal to him.

Everything was so loud and chaotic still. His mind is always too overwhelmed without something to take his concentration away, especially around people.

Her mother got even sicker when he was fourteen in August when the sun was high and walking through the streets was akin to Hell. That same year he sold drugs for quick cash and a month later he got the chance to try some of the products. He knew the consequences, but he was also the kind of person compelled by curiosity. Always try everything at least once. He still is, just wary too.

He doesn't remember much of the circumstances, but even after years passed, he still remembers the clarity that surrounded his mind. How everything became quiet. His heavy breathing and heartbeat were the only things loud, but it was a nice loud and not the kind that drills into one's brain, always pouring information and processing thoughts, sometimes too fast for him to completely understand.

He remembers crying afterward when the noise came back and the next day he stopped working there, running away from the temptation, repeating the words 'be clever, be wise' like a mantra.

Perhaps it was good it happened. Not only because the ambient wasn't the best and he knew even then that had he stayed longer he wouldn't have been able to pull out, but because her mother got hospitalized a couple of weeks after.

Not that getting into fights every morning for small jobs was good, but at least he could still borrow books from the library on afternoons and sit next to her mother's bed for a couple of hours before returning to the church he slept in. Besides, he loved fighting. The adrenaline made him focus. Made his breathing and heartbeat louder than the noise in his head.

It wasn't a good life, borderline illegal in some things, but considering where he lived, it was decent.

Then someone stabbed him, and he learned about flames.

And, well, no one who knows about flames is free from the mafia. However, in those days when he was still ignorant about that world, he took the yellow flames licking his stomach and healing the wound as a blessing. He was glad he understood things quickly because it only took him a couple of times to manifest them again it. Then he experimented and realized with every cut he made on his hand that he could heal.

The flames trigger the cells that heal his body, his young mind thought. And with only a couple of anatomy, medicinal, and even some fantasy books recorded in his brain, he believed himself smart enough to understand how they worked. He even tried it with a couple of animals—and it worked.

I can heal mom, was the only thing in his mind. That week he seemingly forgot the 'be clever, be wise' words he repeated every morning with his mind as busy as it was.

Then he visited her mother and when she was sleeping, he focused on upgrading her immunology system which was weak. And it worked; he could see her mother improving. But it didn't last. What he thought he fixed was killing her after healing whatever was wrong with her first.

He gave his mother cancer.

A couple of days later she died. A week after that, the mafia found him.

The loudness followed trailing behind him like a lost puppy, never leaving but with time he reigned it in. Controlling the loud thoughts with a force of will for years.

Or at least until he bonded and the flame drunkness left him, the second set of emotions his mind didn't know how to process appeared.

Opening his eyes, he felt those muted emotions. Muted most likely because the person who belonged them was asleep next to him. He still annalized every one of them and realized with sudden clarity that they were sharper than his own set of emotions—more real.

Were his own emotions the ones that were dull or Tsuna's were stronger? He didn't know and was slightly afraid of knowing the answer.

He needed space.

.

.

Reviews fill my soul with motivation :D

Also if you wanna support me, go to:

www - Pat - reon - com - /JorieDS