Reborn Drabbles (9/21: these hands made of splinters)
Title: La mia famiglia
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Rating: G
Notes: written for the 31_days challenge (9/21: these hands made of splinters)
It's a wonderful story.
Enter a beautiful boy -
The definition of a beautiful boy is one that seems too young to be hurt yet wise enough to know when he is. He is also somehow tragically haunted by his past, yet hasn't learned enough from his experience to stop his mouth or his hands from moving first. He destroys his social relationships in absurd, almost silly ways if they weren't so dashingly catastrophic. He gives and takes at the same time, from the wrong people. All-in-all, he is one who is still unsure of what role he will play as an adult.
- who scowls and snarls back at life for giving him such a bad time. He runs away at age eight to a beautiful island country packed with beautiful people. They smile and bow at him, but due to his inner belief in the goodness of the world, he doesn't condemn them for it, just shies away like darkness from the sun. To mask this, he arms himself with bright weapons and pale, pale skin.
When he is a child, he thinks he might be an assassin, an artist, an explosives expert. He thinks he might be a cook, a linguist, a pianist. But above all this, he thinks he'll be a good man.
A series of pictures flash across the screen. He is angry in most of them, but morphs into happiness for the most part. He finds himself hard to please, but when he is, the screen alights instantly with the brilliance of his smile. He lives a fulfilling life, unaware of his fortune because of his youth. It is a picturesque montage to behold.
One day, like every day, he starts down the inevitable track of his destiny. The audience leans forward in anticipation: will this character be forever encased in a sharp black suit? In the cowardly facade of an immature child? Or cut down before he can achieve anything?
He embraces his destiny, and the credits roll. A whole cast of international figures, big and small who have helped paint this story parade across the screen. The audience sighs in relief and chatter excitedly about the star of the show, his bravery, his stalwart belief in the goodness of men. He is their hero, until their next movie.
What do you mean, does the story end there?, the man laughs. The jail cell is cold and his listener nonexistent. The story never ends. I just haven't written the rest down.
The silence hangs, until someone asks in a hushed voice, What happens to him?
What, don't have patience for the next movie?
What if I like this hero? What if I don't want to watch any more movies?
The man growls then, low and feral behind his mane of silver hair. You're a fool then, he answers, because he was a fool too. He believed in his family, this artificial family he created. But in the end it all fell apart and they all died shooting each other.
But you're still here.
The man snorts. That's only because I made myself an exit strategy when I first entered this mess. And then, fiercer: I should have known better than to trust them. I should have known nothing good would ever come my way.
Then why did you trust me with this story?
The man pauses. Maybe that's because I'm crazy enough to tell you it. You don't have to believe it happened, after all. A sigh of relief and also of reluctant amusement. I'm talking to myself again, aren't I? I'm talking as if any of this still mattered to anybody.
The jail cell drips in the a dark corner. The three walls are all similarly bare gray concrete, cracked and stained in places. Gokudera thinks of all the people who've come here before him, who've lived and died in this cell. People who've wanted to get out so desperately for whatever they had left waiting for them outside of this soulless compound, this unresisting existence. People who've wanted to die, for the sake of livening up the long monotony one last time.
They wanted what he wants now, with every fiber of his heart: some glimpse that they hadn't completely erred in doing what they did.
Maybe, he admits reluctantly, I just wish someone had kept their promise to me.
A face peers through the bars suddenly then, tanned and older. Wiry black hair is now streaked with gray; hands that've gripped a bat and a sword now brandish a gun. Gokudera is startled, but then eerily calm. He knows this face, after all. It is the face of the man who was once too cowardly to kill him the first time, out of some misplaced respect for the man who lies forty years buried or for the bed they once shared.
Sorry to keep you waiting, Gokudera. His eyes are tired, so tired, Gokudera remembers keener than he ever has before how those eyes looked against the green of the baseball field and against the silken sheets. They'd smiled up at him then, so softly and gently he'd thought he might break his heart over this cruel man, this wicked creature that had taken his heart and squeezed all his hope from it.
Now the only hint of the boy that once was is the heartfelt apology that lurks behind that smiling mask. Gokudera is happy to see him too - he knows it's been too long since he's been stuck behind these walls, away from the people he'd loved and hated, but had nevertheless spent his life with.
I'm sorry too, Yamamoto.
He stares down the barrel of the gun at the tie pin that peeks above the V of the other's suit. Abruptly he remembers the first time he put one on, how he'd felt proud and frightened, an adult in name but not yet in soul. The ferocity and the sharpness of that feeling, that was what he missed most from being a child.
And now, with these hands made of splinters and these eyes made of glass, he directs the gun to his heart. His face shows the faintest ghost of a smile. It's a good way to go, the way he was supposed to go years before, when this same coward had thrown the gun down and held him close instead, babbling about this being the only one thing he could never do. At least he got to finish the script for "La mia famiglia".
You gonna shoot me twice in the chest like I did to you?
No, Yamamoto murmurs. The other nudges his mouth open without much protest, and continues in the same silken tone, I'll make surer of my hit than you.
Reluctantly the swordsman's lips soften into something infinitely fonder, the expression Gokudera remembers from working all night to the touch of the other's hand on his shoulder. Old days, good days. Invalid memories from another lifetime. No, the other whispers in the dark, I'll be sure to join you soon.
Gokudera has exactly half a second to register what the other has said, eyes flying open with surprise and denial, No maybe I missed but why don't you hate me -
Two shots is all it takes.
GAH NO WHY DID I WRITE MOAR ANGST??? After this long hiatus this is all I can bear to write, still. *jumps off a cliff*
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Rating: G
Notes: written for the 31_days challenge (9/21: these hands made of splinters)
It's a wonderful story.
Enter a beautiful boy -
The definition of a beautiful boy is one that seems too young to be hurt yet wise enough to know when he is. He is also somehow tragically haunted by his past, yet hasn't learned enough from his experience to stop his mouth or his hands from moving first. He destroys his social relationships in absurd, almost silly ways if they weren't so dashingly catastrophic. He gives and takes at the same time, from the wrong people. All-in-all, he is one who is still unsure of what role he will play as an adult.
- who scowls and snarls back at life for giving him such a bad time. He runs away at age eight to a beautiful island country packed with beautiful people. They smile and bow at him, but due to his inner belief in the goodness of the world, he doesn't condemn them for it, just shies away like darkness from the sun. To mask this, he arms himself with bright weapons and pale, pale skin.
When he is a child, he thinks he might be an assassin, an artist, an explosives expert. He thinks he might be a cook, a linguist, a pianist. But above all this, he thinks he'll be a good man.
A series of pictures flash across the screen. He is angry in most of them, but morphs into happiness for the most part. He finds himself hard to please, but when he is, the screen alights instantly with the brilliance of his smile. He lives a fulfilling life, unaware of his fortune because of his youth. It is a picturesque montage to behold.
One day, like every day, he starts down the inevitable track of his destiny. The audience leans forward in anticipation: will this character be forever encased in a sharp black suit? In the cowardly facade of an immature child? Or cut down before he can achieve anything?
He embraces his destiny, and the credits roll. A whole cast of international figures, big and small who have helped paint this story parade across the screen. The audience sighs in relief and chatter excitedly about the star of the show, his bravery, his stalwart belief in the goodness of men. He is their hero, until their next movie.
What do you mean, does the story end there?, the man laughs. The jail cell is cold and his listener nonexistent. The story never ends. I just haven't written the rest down.
The silence hangs, until someone asks in a hushed voice, What happens to him?
What, don't have patience for the next movie?
What if I like this hero? What if I don't want to watch any more movies?
The man growls then, low and feral behind his mane of silver hair. You're a fool then, he answers, because he was a fool too. He believed in his family, this artificial family he created. But in the end it all fell apart and they all died shooting each other.
But you're still here.
The man snorts. That's only because I made myself an exit strategy when I first entered this mess. And then, fiercer: I should have known better than to trust them. I should have known nothing good would ever come my way.
Then why did you trust me with this story?
The man pauses. Maybe that's because I'm crazy enough to tell you it. You don't have to believe it happened, after all. A sigh of relief and also of reluctant amusement. I'm talking to myself again, aren't I? I'm talking as if any of this still mattered to anybody.
The jail cell drips in the a dark corner. The three walls are all similarly bare gray concrete, cracked and stained in places. Gokudera thinks of all the people who've come here before him, who've lived and died in this cell. People who've wanted to get out so desperately for whatever they had left waiting for them outside of this soulless compound, this unresisting existence. People who've wanted to die, for the sake of livening up the long monotony one last time.
They wanted what he wants now, with every fiber of his heart: some glimpse that they hadn't completely erred in doing what they did.
Maybe, he admits reluctantly, I just wish someone had kept their promise to me.
A face peers through the bars suddenly then, tanned and older. Wiry black hair is now streaked with gray; hands that've gripped a bat and a sword now brandish a gun. Gokudera is startled, but then eerily calm. He knows this face, after all. It is the face of the man who was once too cowardly to kill him the first time, out of some misplaced respect for the man who lies forty years buried or for the bed they once shared.
Sorry to keep you waiting, Gokudera. His eyes are tired, so tired, Gokudera remembers keener than he ever has before how those eyes looked against the green of the baseball field and against the silken sheets. They'd smiled up at him then, so softly and gently he'd thought he might break his heart over this cruel man, this wicked creature that had taken his heart and squeezed all his hope from it.
Now the only hint of the boy that once was is the heartfelt apology that lurks behind that smiling mask. Gokudera is happy to see him too - he knows it's been too long since he's been stuck behind these walls, away from the people he'd loved and hated, but had nevertheless spent his life with.
I'm sorry too, Yamamoto.
He stares down the barrel of the gun at the tie pin that peeks above the V of the other's suit. Abruptly he remembers the first time he put one on, how he'd felt proud and frightened, an adult in name but not yet in soul. The ferocity and the sharpness of that feeling, that was what he missed most from being a child.
And now, with these hands made of splinters and these eyes made of glass, he directs the gun to his heart. His face shows the faintest ghost of a smile. It's a good way to go, the way he was supposed to go years before, when this same coward had thrown the gun down and held him close instead, babbling about this being the only one thing he could never do. At least he got to finish the script for "La mia famiglia".
You gonna shoot me twice in the chest like I did to you?
No, Yamamoto murmurs. The other nudges his mouth open without much protest, and continues in the same silken tone, I'll make surer of my hit than you.
Reluctantly the swordsman's lips soften into something infinitely fonder, the expression Gokudera remembers from working all night to the touch of the other's hand on his shoulder. Old days, good days. Invalid memories from another lifetime. No, the other whispers in the dark, I'll be sure to join you soon.
Gokudera has exactly half a second to register what the other has said, eyes flying open with surprise and denial, No maybe I missed but why don't you hate me -
Two shots is all it takes.
GAH NO WHY DID I WRITE MOAR ANGST??? After this long hiatus this is all I can bear to write, still. *jumps off a cliff*