By the time Tsuna reached the front door, the sky had darkened into a slate-blue canvas. The air was cooling, carrying the faint, metallic scent of early nightfall and the memory of Sky Flames still tucked into his skin.
He found the key under the flower pot. Of course it was still there. His mother had always insisted Namimori was safe enough for things like that. It wasn't about trust—it was about habit.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Warm light spilled from the hallway and the faint clatter of pans came from the kitchen. The air inside smelled of soy sauce, miso, and something floral. Nana's scent—a soft omega blend of lilac and cooked rice—hovered faintly in the air, clean and domestic.
Tsuna stepped inside quietly, the weight of his clothes hanging off him, stained and rumpled. He hadn't looked at himself yet, not really. But he knew what he must've looked like: pale, smeared with sweat and old tears, vomit still staining his collar.
She won't notice, he thought, already numb to the ache that followed.
And he was right.
Nana glanced up from the kitchen as he stepped in and offered a bright, unbothered smile—the kind that could light a room if it didn't bounce off empty walls.
"Oh, Tsu-kun! You're late again. Honestly, I thought I told you not to stay out so long."
She turned the stove down with one hand and cupped the other gently against her cheek, a gesture more reflex than affection.
"You look a mess—go shower and put your clothes in the laundry basket, I'll take care of them after. Dinner's ready, but don't come down until you're clean, alright?"
She hummed as she turned back to the simmering pot, gently stirring. Like nothing was wrong. Like her son hadn't been gone half the day, walking in dazed and wrecked. Like she hadn't nearly lost him, and didn't even know it.
Tsuna stood frozen in the hallway for a moment longer, throat too dry to answer.
She didn't even look at me, he thought.
Not really.
She hadn't seen the tremble in his hands, or the redness around his eyes. She hadn't flinched at the scent of vomit, or noticed the bloodless tint to his lips.
He wasn't surprised.
It still hurt.
He climbed the stairs quietly, like he was still a ghost. The creak of the fifth step under his foot felt achingly familiar, and so did the chill in his bedroom as he pushed open the door.
The lights were off, but the streetlamp outside spilled in just enough to paint the room in soft gray.
It was a mess.
Books were stacked haphazardly on the desk, some of them open and left mid-page. Manga volumes with bent corners. A notebook filled with scribbled half-notes on biology, specifically omega hormonal shifts and presentation cycles. Some of the pages had faint tearstains warped into the ink.
Near the edge of the dresser sat three cologne bottles. One had its cap off. The other two looked almost untouched.
Tsuna stepped closer, picking one up.
It smelled like sharp citrus and alcohol. Clean. Manufactured.
Fake.
He set it back down.
He tried, Tsuna thought. He really tried to make himself acceptable. To smell like something—anything—someone would notice.
But the world hadn't wanted a scentless omega. And when even cologne couldn't make him noticeable, he'd stopped trying.
Tsuna stared around the room, taking in all the quiet efforts of a boy who didn't know how to ask for help. A boy whose room was filled with stories he escaped into and reference books he hoped would fix him.
He clutched the folded pajamas to his chest and exhaled shakily.
"I see you," he whispered, to the space the other Tsuna had left behind.
And maybe that was enough—for now.
He turned to head for the bathroom, the hallway light flickering briefly above him as he closed the bedroom door behind him.
.
The bathroom was silent except for the soft hiss of the shower and the occasional creak of the old pipes. Tsuna stood in front of the mirror for a long moment before undressing, his clothes limp and stained on the floor beside him.
The reflection staring back at him was… familiar.
Younger.
His seventeen-year-old self, just as he remembered. His face was still boyish, cheeks soft, chin not yet fully defined. His hair hung in wet clumps against his forehead. His eyes, though—those had changed.
There was tiredness there. A hollowing.
Not just from him—but from the one who had come before.
You wanted to live, Tsuna thought. I'm sorry it took so long for someone to listen.
He didn't linger.
He stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as he could stand. It burned across his back and shoulders, scalding the skin raw, but he didn't stop. He scrubbed himself clean with trembling hands—until the smell of dirt and vomit was gone, until his skin ached, until all that was left was faint floral sweetness and steam.
Only then did he step out, drying himself off with jerky motions, and changed into his pajamas.
The stairs creaked under his feet as he descended.
The living room lights were still on, a soft yellow hue filling the small space. The dining table had one set of dishes laid out—rice, miso soup, a small grilled fish. Everything portioned neatly.
Nana was at the sink, humming again, her back turned as she scrubbed at the pots she'd used. She didn't glance back as he sat down.
There was only food for one.
She'd eaten already.
Tsuna's throat still hurt, but he picked up the chopsticks. The soup was warm, fragrant, and simple. But it settled in his stomach like stone. He chewed slowly, forcing the first bites down.
And then—
"Oh!"
Nana's voice was bright with surprise.
She turned from the sink and sniffed the air delicately, eyebrows lifting with delight. She approached, leaning in close and taking a deep inhale from behind him.
"Tsu-kun," she beamed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You have a scent now!"
He froze.
"How lovely! So sweet—like sakura honey. You've always been late, but it finally came through! Oh, I should tell Iemitsu right away—he was so worried, you know. And Ieyasu, too! He'll be so happy."
She kept talking, her voice light and fast, washing over him like water he couldn't breathe through.
"You'll make friends now—when school starts, I'm sure of it! Maybe even find someone special. You're an omega, after all! My little Tsu-kun, all grown up... I might get grandchildren one day…"
She laughed, a hand cupping her cheek again, eyes sparkling with joy at an imagined future.
Tsuna stared at the food in his bowl.
Not a word before. Not when I was gone all day. Not when I came home looking like death. But now that I have a scent—
He gripped the chopsticks tightly, knuckles white. Each sentence, each carefully spoken wish for social success and grandchildren, landed like a blow.
As if scent had finally made him worth something.
He couldn't take it.
The food turned to ash in his mouth. His throat tightened with something worse than the pain from earlier.
He stood up so abruptly the chair scraped against the floor.
"I'm going to bed," he said, voice flat, rough.
Nana turned slightly, surprised. "Oh, but you barely touched—"
He didn't wait.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, feet barely touching the ground. The second he shut his bedroom door, he stumbled into the small attached bathroom and dropped to his knees at the toilet.
What little food he'd eaten came up fast, burning and bitter.
He coughed, heaved, his body trembling. The smell of sakura honey—faint, unnatural—clung to his clothes, to the back of his tongue.
When it was over, he leaned back against the cold wall, tears hot in his eyes, throat torn raw again.
You were never scentless, he thought, heart aching for the boy who had died believing he was less. You were just ignored.
And now, even in death, the world only valued what it could smell.
.
Tsuna woke before the sun finished rising, the faint early light seeping through the cracks in the curtains like a breath held too long.
His limbs felt stiff. His eyes burned. But he moved with a purpose that wasn't frantic—just tired, steady, and unshakable.
He made his own breakfast. Nothing fancy: plain rice, miso soup, half an egg. It was warm, quiet work, the kind of routine his hands remembered before his mind could catch up.
He was just finishing the last spoonful when he heard footsteps creaking down the stairs.
Nana's scent drifted faintly into the room, that same floral warmth that once reminded him of safety. Now it smelled like absence, layered in routines and ignorance.
"I'm going out for a walk," he said, rising from the table before she could even greet him.
He didn't look back to see if she was confused or concerned.
He didn't want to know.
He stepped outside before she could speak, the door clicking shut behind him like a chapter ending.
.
The streets of Namimori were familiar, but they felt thinner now. Less real.
He walked without direction. The weight of his new scent clung to his skin, that faint sweetness he hadn't noticed until yesterday now turning heads when he passed strangers. People—some omegas, some alphas—turned and sniffed the air curiously, eyes briefly finding his before looking away again.
Before, he was invisible.
Now, they saw him.
And it hurt.
Because none of them had seen him before. Not when it mattered. And the boy who had once lived in this skin… he'd died thinking no one ever would.
He didn't realize where he was heading until he saw the red curtain fluttering in the wind.
The ramen stand stood at the edge of a wide, empty lot, quiet and out of place like a dream no one remembered waking from. The sign still simply read 「ラーメン」. The air smelled faintly of soy, broth, and… possibility.
Tsuna didn't think twice.
He stepped through the curtain.
Kawahira was already there, sitting behind the counter with a steaming bowl of ramen in front of him. He was mid-bite when Tsuna entered, his eyes lifting slowly, cool and calculating, as if he had expected this.
Tsuna sat down quietly, his stomach empty despite the breakfast earlier.
"One bowl," he said.
He didn't question how one slid in front of him seconds later, perfectly hot, rich with scent and steam.
He just picked up the chopsticks and began to eat.
The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. The broth warmed his chest and settled his stomach. His muscles began to unknot, if only a little.
Then Kawahira spoke.
"I looked into you."
Tsuna didn't answer. Just kept chewing, not even blinking.
"Tsunayoshi Sawada. Younger twin of Ieyasu Sawada. Your brother left for Italy a year ago to be trained as Vongola Decimo under Reborn, the Sun Arcobaleno. Your father, Iemitsu Sawada, head of CEDEF, arranged it. The Vongola needed a new heir, and your brother—alpha, popular, bright—was the obvious choice."
Kawahira stirred his own noodles absently, voice calm and measured.
"You, on the other hand, were listed with poor grades. No friends. Victim of routine bullying. Scentless omega. A footnote in your own household."
There was a silence when Tsuna continued eating, then Kawahira continued, "He was your only pillar, wasn't he? And he left."
Tsuna still didn't respond. He just kept eating, slower now. Steam rose in front of his face like a curtain.
"But here's the thing," Kawahira said, tone shifting slightly. "Your flames—what's left of them—told me more than reports. The Tsunayoshi Sawada of this world was a sealed Sky. Stunted. Not defective—sealed."
He looked directly at Tsuna now, gaze cutting like cold water.
"That would explain a lot. Scentlessness. Clumsiness. The social aversion. All symptoms of a Flame suppression gone too far."
Tsuna lowered his chopsticks, setting them gently against the rim of the bowl.
The clink was soft, but final.
He looked at Kawahira then—not surprised, not bothered, just tired.
And he didn't address a word of what had been said.
"Have you thought about my offer?" he asked, voice steady.
Kawahira leaned back slightly, watching him through the glint of his glasses.
And for the first time in the entire conversation, he didn't have an immediate answer.