Katekyou Hitman Reborn! » Take Me Back to the Start
Title Take Me Back to the Start
Theme October 15: Primeval at 31_days
Character/Pairing Hayato Gokudera
Rating PG-13 or Teen for themes of death
Warning Spoilers for the beginning of the future arc. (Chapter 136 and beyond.)
Wordcount 752
Note Read this one slowly, and listen to this.
Autumn was the season that met Tsunayoshi Sawada when he came into the world. Autumn was also the season that saw him on his way back out. For that reason - for those reasons - the season ever immortalized him, at the very least, in the mind of the person who held him in the highest regard.
Hayato Gokudera visited the non-burial site frequently. At first, it was every day, multiple times a day, and he would always manage to find tears left somewhere deep within him no matter how many he had just cried. He could never, ever cry enough of them.
Fallen leaves cracked and rustled beneath a well-worn pair of Italian leather shoes that looked like they hadn't been properly cared for in months. They had been a proper, presentable black long ago, but now bore cracks where the leather creased over the years, yielding gracefully to each shuffling footstep as if it had the choice. The feet that wore them kept a steady, somber tempo in four-four time. Although, if one looked closely there hung a nearly imperceptible ritardando with every fourth beat, as if the want to stop and turn back couldn't quite bring itself to triumph, though its victory would be easy. However, every time, no matter what, there was a whole rest as he arrived at the clearing.
He stayed on the outskirts for four beats, eight beats, hesitating as if hoping this time might be able to be different. His hand held tightly to his briefcase, an ever so slight vibrato traveling through the sinews. And he could feel the tears coming to his eyes, and he fought them with everything he had. Luckily, this time, that was just barely enough to push them back. He set his jaw, the thickness of the tears still coating the back of his throat, and took one more heavy step forward.
Then another. Then another. He kept his strides long to fool himself; the faster he made it to the coffin, the less of a chance there would be for him to turn and run.
Why must it be this hard?
Before he knew it, he was across the clearing, a breath away from the sleek blackness of the coffin, tears once more stinging at his eyes. He fell to his knees, scarcely wincing as his knee grazed a stone covered by the soil. He reached a hand out, but did not actually lay it upon the casket.
"Tenth," he whispered, hand traveling along the coffin's length, hovering reverently above it. "Tenth."
With no warning, his body fell forward, collapsing onto the casket with a dull thud, sobbing from his very core. His fingers curled against the lacquer; his head rested against the cool surface, his hot breath quickly condensing upon it. His abandoned suitcase fell toward him, landing against his leg as if in a poor mockery of himself. And he cried, and he ached, and he screamed from every pore.
He cried so fervently and for so long, that he eventually had to turn away to vomit, scrambling through dirt and leaves to get himself far away from the site. He leaned his forehead against the tree that had accomodated him, crouching on all fours, and let the tears finally subside. It was another measure before he actually got to his feet, ignored his ruined suit, and returned to the casket.
"I'm sorry, Tenth," he spoke and his throat still burned from the acid. Part of him actually hoped for a reply, some sort of reassurance that he was still doing his best. He leaned down to take up his suitcase, but paused just shy of actually grabbing it. Despite the taste on his tongue, despite his dishevled appearance, despite his unworthiness, he wanted to see that face again. As if just that one look could fix things. As if he held the power in him to make that one look matter, magic fingers and words to weave a spell of ressurection.
But he didn't, so he didn't.
He took up his briefcase, turned his back, and departed, gait not quite so shuffling now, embarrassed of the scene he'd made. How stupid to want to see his face. How irresponsible. He moved just a little bit faster through the trees as the wind began to blow, rattling the leaves and making them sound too much of death.
Winter would be coming soon, but the chill in the air was not the reason he felt so very cold.
Theme October 15: Primeval at 31_days
Character/Pairing Hayato Gokudera
Rating PG-13 or Teen for themes of death
Warning Spoilers for the beginning of the future arc. (Chapter 136 and beyond.)
Wordcount 752
Note Read this one slowly, and listen to this.
Autumn was the season that met Tsunayoshi Sawada when he came into the world. Autumn was also the season that saw him on his way back out. For that reason - for those reasons - the season ever immortalized him, at the very least, in the mind of the person who held him in the highest regard.
Hayato Gokudera visited the non-burial site frequently. At first, it was every day, multiple times a day, and he would always manage to find tears left somewhere deep within him no matter how many he had just cried. He could never, ever cry enough of them.
Fallen leaves cracked and rustled beneath a well-worn pair of Italian leather shoes that looked like they hadn't been properly cared for in months. They had been a proper, presentable black long ago, but now bore cracks where the leather creased over the years, yielding gracefully to each shuffling footstep as if it had the choice. The feet that wore them kept a steady, somber tempo in four-four time. Although, if one looked closely there hung a nearly imperceptible ritardando with every fourth beat, as if the want to stop and turn back couldn't quite bring itself to triumph, though its victory would be easy. However, every time, no matter what, there was a whole rest as he arrived at the clearing.
He stayed on the outskirts for four beats, eight beats, hesitating as if hoping this time might be able to be different. His hand held tightly to his briefcase, an ever so slight vibrato traveling through the sinews. And he could feel the tears coming to his eyes, and he fought them with everything he had. Luckily, this time, that was just barely enough to push them back. He set his jaw, the thickness of the tears still coating the back of his throat, and took one more heavy step forward.
Then another. Then another. He kept his strides long to fool himself; the faster he made it to the coffin, the less of a chance there would be for him to turn and run.
Why must it be this hard?
Before he knew it, he was across the clearing, a breath away from the sleek blackness of the coffin, tears once more stinging at his eyes. He fell to his knees, scarcely wincing as his knee grazed a stone covered by the soil. He reached a hand out, but did not actually lay it upon the casket.
"Tenth," he whispered, hand traveling along the coffin's length, hovering reverently above it. "Tenth."
With no warning, his body fell forward, collapsing onto the casket with a dull thud, sobbing from his very core. His fingers curled against the lacquer; his head rested against the cool surface, his hot breath quickly condensing upon it. His abandoned suitcase fell toward him, landing against his leg as if in a poor mockery of himself. And he cried, and he ached, and he screamed from every pore.
He cried so fervently and for so long, that he eventually had to turn away to vomit, scrambling through dirt and leaves to get himself far away from the site. He leaned his forehead against the tree that had accomodated him, crouching on all fours, and let the tears finally subside. It was another measure before he actually got to his feet, ignored his ruined suit, and returned to the casket.
"I'm sorry, Tenth," he spoke and his throat still burned from the acid. Part of him actually hoped for a reply, some sort of reassurance that he was still doing his best. He leaned down to take up his suitcase, but paused just shy of actually grabbing it. Despite the taste on his tongue, despite his dishevled appearance, despite his unworthiness, he wanted to see that face again. As if just that one look could fix things. As if he held the power in him to make that one look matter, magic fingers and words to weave a spell of ressurection.
But he didn't, so he didn't.
He took up his briefcase, turned his back, and departed, gait not quite so shuffling now, embarrassed of the scene he'd made. How stupid to want to see his face. How irresponsible. He moved just a little bit faster through the trees as the wind began to blow, rattling the leaves and making them sound too much of death.
Winter would be coming soon, but the chill in the air was not the reason he felt so very cold.