Actions

Work Header

Dare to Stand

Summary:

A sharp intake of breath escapes Haneul’s lips before he can stop it, the sound catching Chun-Woo’s attention, whose head whips around to pin the ex-sky with a brief, considering look, predictably unflustered by the presence of a son he hasn’t seen in years.


(Or: the one in which Tsuna finds himself reborn as a side character in an entirely different manhwa. Or, at least, he tries to be. But Lady Luck isn't too keen on letting him fade into the background.

Nor is Byakuran, for that matter.)

Notes:

I've been wanting to write a Katekyo Hitman Reborn! fic for the longest time, and then I read The Breaker series, and this baby was born. I will try to stay as faithful to the material as I can, but of course, not everything will remain the same. Honestly, at this point, I just hope I do the characters justice.

Unfortunately, I don't own KHR or The Breaker series, but the writing is mine. And the plot. And any characters you don't recognize. :Winky face. Relationship and character tags will be added as the story progresses.

.

.

.

CHARACTER CAST

 

Park Haneul is Sawada Tsunayoshi

Chapter 1: i-iv

Chapter Text


I.

The first time he sees Yi Shi-Woon, the social pariah of Nine Dragons High School, he’s sitting slumped against the wall, cuts and great purple welts marking nearly every exposed inch of his skin. It’s such a depressing sight that Park Haneul—formerly known as Sawada Tsunayoshi, the infamous dame of Namimori Middle School—can’t help the sigh that passes his lips.

It seems that no matter where he goes, bullying runs rampant through the educational systems Asia so proudly boasts of. So many of them are broken, the teachers desensitized to the sight of the various timid, downtrodden faces looking up at them from their assigned desks, deliberately ignorant of the trouble brewing behind spiteful, cruel eyes as they call for attention.

He dealt with it for years in Namimori, dragged into the rotten schemes of his fellow students by the simple edict of being weaker than them, and now it looks as though Shi-Woon has reluctantly assumed the unwanted role of dame, forced to bear the crushing weight of disappointment and inadequacy in his place.

(A role Haneul himself absolutely refuses to resume.

He’s lived through far too many battles—taken far too many hits as well as regrettably killed his own fair share of assassins over the years—to ever allow himself to succumb to the naivety of youth. Not again, never again. It's a lesson Shi-Woon has yet to learn, obviously. But that’s to be expected. Haneul possesses the mind of a twenty-seven-year-old, after all, a weary, twenty-seven-year-old mafia boss who’s experienced loss on an unimaginably torturous scale.

Still, no one deserves to be treated like the worst sort of garbage, unfit even for dumpsters.)

“Um,” the former sky exhales resignedly, realizing the futility of ignoring someone in pain. That would make him no better than the schoolyard bullies who treat Nine Dragons High as their personal breeding ground for subjugation. “Do you need help?” He hunkers down next to Shi-Woon, arms dangling uselessly over his knees as he gazes attentively at him. Stupid question. Of course he needs help. But the real question is, will he accept a freely offered hand? A pensive frown creasing his brow, Haneul briefly considers just picking him up and carrying him to the infirmary, but his intuition—somehow, the famed Vongola Hyper Intuition followed him to this new world—tells him that the other boy isn’t someone who’ll easily accept his assistance on hearsay alone, even at the perceived threat of unconsciousness.

When he doesn’t reply right away, however, Haneul gives a decisive nod of his head and moves to follow through with his promise of help—only to waver at the token soft grunt of protest that leaves the boy before he can even fit his arm around his back.

“N, No,” says Shi-Woon, the sound emerging as a pained rasp. “I, I’m fine.”

Haneul purses his lips and narrows his eyes, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving him to his own devices when he’s so obviously hurt. “Is there anyone I can call then?”

Shi-Woon’s eyes open into tiny slits, his expression betraying his surprise. “I—No. But thank you.” It’s glaringly obvious he’s not used to people caring enough about him to ask.

Haneul can relate—at least before his friends, as stubborn and as relentless and as single-minded as they were, stormed his life, turning it upside down and inside out...and yes, he'd loved every minute of it. “You should get that looked at.” He gestures toward the contusion stretching from the brunet’s elbow to the edge of his sleeve, specks of red staining the cuff.

(It looks nasty.

And painful.

And...it’s days like today he wishes he still carried a first aid kit around with him. For emergencies—when he was forced to go without a continuous supply of sun flames courtesy of Ryohei. And Reborn when he was feeling particularly...magnanimous.)

“I, I will.” Shi-Woon folds like a house of cards under the intense scrutiny of the unassuming first year. But only inasmuch as allowing him to point out the fact that he clearly needs proper treatment for the vicious beating he sustained at the hands of Chang-Ho and his gang.

At his reluctant acquiescence, the corners of Haneul’s lips curve into a bland smile. “Right. Well...I guess I’ll see you around.”

It’s feasible—the school isn’t that big, after all.

.

.

.

II.

The next time he sees Shi-Woon, the shaggy-haired boy is running as if his life depends on getting somewhere fast, feet pounding on the faded, weather-beaten surface of the track as he barrels around the field, his breaths seesawing from his lungs, harsh and loud. Bemused, Haneul sets out after him, closing the distance in minutes. While not as athletic as Takeshi, he doesn’t tire as easily as he used to, back when he was still Dame-Tsuna. Back when it was normal for him to trip over thin air and faceplant in the middle of the classroom, much to the mocking amusement of his peers.

“What are you doing?” He asks as soon as he reaches the other boy’s side, his breathing even and his gait steady, a trick he picked up from his father.

(No, not Iemitsu.)

Shi-Woon slants him a startled glance and lifts a shaking arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Fifty laps,” he wheezes, struggling to keep pace with Haneul, whose gentle, chestnut-brown gaze hasn’t left him since he approached him. Shi-Woon’s face is flushed, and there’s a feverish look in his eyes that bespeaks of someone either on the verge of collapsing or seconds away from snapping like a too-taut bowstring; neither option bodes well for anyone. “I, I have to s, show him,” he pants between breaths, unintentionally veering off to the side, toward the empty bleachers. But Haneul immediately catches his arm and pulls him back onto the right path, fingers firm but gentle. “T, Thanks.”

Haneul waves off his gratitude, his thoughts already on this mysterious person Shi-Woon is trying to impress. Is someone besides Chang-Ho bullying Shi-Woon? And...what? Make him run until his body crumples like a piece of paper at the bottom of a wastebasket? That’s pretty diabolical. “Show who?”

“S, Sunsengnim. H, He said he would teach me. If I could manage. F, Fifty laps.” Shi-Woon grits his teeth, lips compressed into a grim line as he pushes onward, driven by a desperate kind of determination that doesn’t measure up to Haneul’s mental depiction of a bullied victim with no recourse. It’s impressive, in its own way. Whoever this sunsengnim is, he hopes he realizes just how lucky he is to have such a dedicated student, willing to do whatever it takes to prove his worth. Reborn would have certainly appreciated it.

“You’ll make it.” Haneul flashes an encouraging grin, patting the brunet on his shoulder. “My gut says you’ll succeed, and it’s never wrong.”

Shi-Woon nearly stumbles in surprise at Haneul's straightforward praise—but then returns it with a shy, grateful smile, the frantic gleam in his eyes subsiding. Thank god.

Haneul doesn’t realize it at the time, but that moment marks the start of a bond strong enough to rival that of a sky and its elements.

.

.

.

III.

Shi-Woon doesn’t make it.

Peering into the infirmary, Haneul bites his lip, indecision and worry warring within him. On the one hand, he wants to ascertain the boy’s condition for himself, ensure he’s relatively safe and unharmed—if not a little dehydrated and exhausted—but on the other hand, he doesn’t want to call unnecessary attention to himself. For so long, he’s managed to fly under the radar that few even realize he’s on the class roster until his name is called (and even then, he only receives the customary glance before the other students lose interest in him—every time, a far cry from what he’s used to), and that’s just how he prefers it. Better to keep his distance than to accidentally make known to civilians the kind of life he leads, a life that sits on the periphery of a world very much like his old one. Dangerous and competitive, secretive and unforgivable. In the world of Murim, only the strong prosper while the weak are left to wither and crumble, consumed by their stronger brethren.

Were you trying to kill him. If this spreads all over the internet, what will you do?” The vice-principal’s screech cuts into his saturnine thoughts, his tone high-strung as he points an accusing finger at the culprit, a grimacing dark-haired man who looks uncannily like his—

“What’s the matter?” Said man mumbles, a hint of confusion seeping into his words. Tilting his head, dark hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes, but it fails to completely hide the piercing metallic-grey of his gaze. Cold and remote, it's the kind of gaze that belongs to a man more than capable of killing, one who would revel in the inevitable destruction of his enemies. But it’s also protective, surprisingly so, and even more inordinately possessive of those who fall under his care.

Father and warrior.

Teacher and killer.

The inconsistency between two clashing psyches continues to confound Haneul, even after years of striving to understand the dual nature of his father.

His father.

Recognition dawns, and with it resignation.

(His father...as a teacher.

As a teacher with god-awful fashion sense. Seriously, why? Who wears Hawaiian shirts anymore?)

He doesn’t know whether to curse the fact that Han Chun-Woo failed to inform his own son about his new job or applaud him for having the mettle to mingle so blatantly with the normal world given the...notorious reputation he carries so proudly in the Murim.

Pensively, Haneul stares at the man, studying every minute detail of his face to determine the genuineness of his confusion. Chun-Woo is adept at controlling his emotions, manipulating others into seeing what he wants them to see; the only reason Haneul has never fallen for his act is because he has experience on his side, experience leading one of the most powerful, influential famiglias in the mafia...and an intuition that has never led him wrong before. An intuition that has (as of this very moment) fallen quiet, not even pinging lightly at the appearance of a man strong enough to level cities if he sets his mind to it—which means Chun-Woo genuinely has no idea what the vice-principal is talking about. At least until his father's gaze alights on the still form of Shi-Woon, and an unexpected look of panic briefly flashes across his face, his arms nearly pinwheeling as he staggers forward in a show of agitation, acting nothing at all like his usual laidback, brash self.

“Wha...what, this kid? What’s wrong with him?”

Haneul’s fingers dig into the doorframe, his worry for Shi-Woon overcoming his hesitation at being noticed.

“I carried him all the way here after finding him passed out on the track,” the vice-principal explains, nervously dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Was it not you who recklessly ordered this boy to run fifty laps around the track? Take responsibility for your actions, Han-Sunseng.”

Haneul’s eyes widen, then narrow, as he looks from Chun-Woo to Shi-Woon. This is the sunsengnim who promised to teach Shi-Woon if he managed fifty laps around the track? Hm. All this time, he just assumed one of the other teachers was teasing Shi-Woon, pretending to be interested in one-on-one tutoring sessions when they could really care less—some teachers, Haneul knows from experience, can be worse than the school-wide bullies they proudly profess to having authority over.

He doesn't know if this knowledge makes what's happening to Shi-Woon any better, though. His father isn't necessarily a bad person, per se, but Haneul definitely doesn't think Chun-Woo should be around impressionable teenagers, especially not in the capacity of a teacher.

“I—No. That’s not...” Chun-Woo sputters, tension lining his shoulders as he gapes, almost uncomprehendingly, down at his unconscious student.

“The nurse said he had a heart attack and almost died.”

A sharp intake of breath escapes Haneul’s lips before he can stop it, the sound catching Chun-Woo’s attention, whose head whips around to pin the ex-sky with a brief, considering look, predictably unflustered by the presence of a son he hasn’t seen in years. In fact, he barely spares him a glance afterward, mouth quirking upward in faint acknowledgment as he allows the vice-principal to steer him toward the only door (and coincidentally where Haneul is lingering, hesitant to enter), the older man berating him all the while for his irresponsibility.

“You will fix this, Han-Sunseng. We can’t have this getting out. Honestly, what would you have done if he actually died? Young teachers these days...No common sense...”

Haneul readily steps aside, ducking his head and subtly watching out of the corners of his eyes as his father and the vice-principal exit the infirmary and continue down the hallway, only to disappear around a corner, their voices fading with the distance.

A perplexing silence follows their retreat. What. Was. That. He blinks, but then, with an absent-mindedness born of the confusion clouding his thoughts, he lifts his hand to his face and rubs his knuckles on the crease between his brows, as if to oust the uncertainty reflected in the wrinkling of his forehead. Complicated relationship aside, he doesn’t quite know what to make of the connection between Chun-Woo and Shi-Woon. And since there is only one thing his father is qualified to teach anyone… “Damn it, Shi-Woon-ah,” he mumbles, moving to stand at the foot of the only occupied bed. “You don’t understand how dangerous this world can be.” Or how impossible it is to leave it once you embrace the modus vivendi of a true martial artist. “It will eat you alive,” Haneul laments bitterly, curling his hands into fists at his sides as he looks away. No way will he allow such a thing come to pass—certainly not while there is still breath left in his body to fight.

“One…” Shi-Woon mutters then, low and hoarse, scrunching his nose.

Haneul’s gaze, guarded and assessing, snaps back to Shi-Woon’s face, and he leans forward, straining to hear better.

“Show him…” The muttered words sink into almost inaudible whispering, cracked lips forming short, concise sentences that extend from the soul, trickling into the atmosphere. “From now on—On...Only twenty-five laps left...”

There is silence, subdued and speculative and brief. Then—

A shaky laugh catches in his throat, and he shakes his head as disbelief, tinged with relief, sweeps over him. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Haneul muses aloud, more convinced than ever of the brunet's impending initiation into a world few would ever thinkingly describe as lax or stable.

And one day, you’ll take Murim by storm.

.

.

.

IV.

Later that evening, Haneul wearily slides his house key into the deadbolt, turning it to unlock the door. “I’m home!” He calls out as soon as he crosses the threshold into the living room, waffling over what to tell his mother, Jina. She’ll probably want to know about Chun-Woo accepting a teaching role at his school despite not actually qualifying for it. “Jin—Mom?” He immediately corrects himself, fighting back a wince. (He’s had sixteen years to adjust to calling another woman mother, and he still finds himself fumbling over her label occasionally, reverting to friendly acquaintanceship. Even stranger, she doesn’t seem to notice. Suppose she’s a bit like Nana in that regard.)

“Hello? Mom?” Dropping his bag by the coffee table, he scans the room for any sign of the woman. “You home?”

Not even three seconds later, a frazzled Jina pops up behind the kitchen counter with a plate of tea cookies, a smudge of red paint streaking her cheek. “Hey, kiddo,” she greets, flashing him a welcoming smile. “How was school?”

His lips twitch at her bedraggled appearance. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old…Abeonim took on another disciple,” he says casually—like he’s talking about the weather.

“Oh?” Her smile chills several degrees as she sets the plate down with a sharp clang. “He’s back then?”

Haneul eyes her warily, recognizing the sullen undertone for what it is—her attempt at fishing for information. “I guess.” He doesn’t know the whole story, has only been able to piece together a basic outline stemming from what Jina has accidentally let slip over the years. But he knows enough to deduce which topics are considered off-limits. An ex-fling who can’t even be bothered to drop a text every now and then? Check. It doesn’t seem to matter to her that technically, they were never a thing. (Or that technically, Haneul is the only common denominator between them.) And he absolutely refuses to be the one to tell her. Might as well keep that particular cat in the bag, at least until she can say his name without blowing a fuse.

“What’s the disciple like?” She asks abruptly as she leans against the counter, nibbling absently on a tea cookie. Indifference practically saturates the air, but her gaze holds a certain gleam of intensity that sends a prickle of warning shooting down his back.

Don’t lie, his instincts say.

So, of course, he listens.

“He’s...interesting,” Haneul admits softly, flopping sideways onto the sectional sofa. “He has a bit of a weak constitution and is frequently targeted by Chang-Ho and his gang. But there’s this unshakable resolve in his eyes whenever I see him, and he’s stubborn enough to keep going even when he knows he shouldn’t...It nearly got him killed.” A slight grimace passing over his features, he wraps his arms around the gray, oval-shaped throw pillow and hugs it to his chest. “I can see why he caught Dad’s attention.”

“Hm.” She grins around the cookie, a definite flicker of amusement showing on her face. “You like him.”

It takes a minute for her words to register, but when they do, a blush suffuses his cheeks, and on impulse, he buries his face in the pillow, thinking only of hiding the evidence from her. Twenty-seven-year-old mafia bosses shouldn’t blush...or easily and stupidly fall victim to embarrassment. “He’s got potential, okay?” A defensive note creeps into his tone, his voice muffled by the pillow. Despite knowing that Jina doesn’t mean anything by it (that she’s only teasing him by trying to provoke a reaction out of him), he still falls for it—hook, line, and sinker. “I just want to see how far he can go.”

Humming thoughtfully to herself, she finishes off her cookie, then immediately pushes the plate aside. “Think he has any chance of surpassing the idiot?”

Haneul raises his flushed face from the pillow and directs a long, measuring look at her, answering honestly, “I don’t know.” Idiot though he may be, there’s no denying that Chun-Woo is strong—Reborn-strong, with just a hint of Fon half-hazardously thrown into the mix to make a powder keg of tremendous battle prowess and extraordinary talent. Goomoonryong, they call him, and for good reason. “Honestly? I think Shi-Woon will shake things up.”

A lopsided smirk graces her features, giving her a mischievous look. “Keep me updated, will you?” She asks in such a way that he knows better than to treat it as anything but a demand. “And remember to take lots of pictures.” Stepping around the kitchen counter, she moves toward the sofa where Haneul currently lay, trying to blend unsuccessfully with the upholstery. “We’ll need the proof.”

“Proof of what?”

At his innocuous question, vindictive pleasure lights up her brown gaze, a snicker escaping her. “Proof of the idiot’s misery,” Jina reveals cheerfully.

A shudder washes over him as he slowly sits up, unconsciously tightening his grip on the pillow—because, well, in that moment, she reminded him of his sadistic tutor, a man who positively thrived on chaos. Who systematically and mercilessly dismantled piece by piece the life he resigned himself to leading as a no-good, lazy son with no prospects or future goals.

(Terrifying.

But also vital to his growth. How can he possibly resent the hitman after everything they endured together? He wasis; will always befamily.)

“His arrogance won’t be able to accept that his student has managed to do the unthinkable. Just imagining the look on his face the first time your boy succeeds in knocking him flat on his cocky ass...It’s giving me shivers.” She rubs her hands together with unabashed glee, cackling. “We’ll need pictures to forever document this monumental occasion.”

“He’s not my boy,” Haneul immediately denies but then lets out a quiet groan when he realizes what she’s essentially asking him to do. “Mom, your scary is showing again.”

She giggles and pats his head, her fingers smoothing down his gravity-defying, brown hair, or at least trying to. But unfortunately, it’s a lost cause; it has been for as long as he can remember—in both this life and the last. “I know, baby boy. I know.”