Hundreds of years passing takes its toll, and there are little things that are different even with tradition. New technology, new paintings. It's all just meaningless background, however, to tired eyes that rely more on muscle memory than anything else. Soon enough, there's a familiar enough door beneath his fingertips and he's pushing it open.

There's a figure in the bed. It's him. He knows it is. Who else could it be in G's bed?

He's already tired, so the best Tsuna can do is wobble over besides his bed and reach over to take his best friend's hand into his as he slumps down to his knees. There's something off here, something in the shadows that doesn't seem right, but it's not enough to knock his thoughts back into place just yet.