endless summertime (reborn, yamamoto/gokudera, pg)
endless summertime | yamamoto/gokudera | pg | 265 words
just goes on living. not crying at the pain, or swearing at the losses. hands pounding, blood rushing; none of that mess. it’s just good-natured fun.
written for cross_chord
he seems to laugh with the utmost freedom. this careless, head-tossing sensation of summer that creeps back into their bones and their muscles.
“you don’t make any sense.”
“since when to people have to make sense?”
(laughs. one, two, three. hands up to the sky and fighting his way through battles. nicks and scratches and bruises floating to the surface of his skin like water lilies.)
“you aren’t on the top of the world, yamamoto, goddamn. grow up.” gokudera just swears under his breath; he never learns anything, never takes in the pains of the battles. just goes on living. not crying at the pain, or swearing at the losses. hands pounding, blood rushing; none of that mess. it’s just good-natured fun.
“but i am on the top. the best, i’d have to say.”
and the clouds float on, endless streams of water up in the sky waiting to be pulled down by his fingertips. the summer sometimes makes him delirious, so he thinks he can. “sun’s fuckin’ bright as hell.”
“i love it.” and he means it.
“you’re too honest.” gokudera, forcing his body up against gravity, trying harder than if yamamoto had tried moving up instead of splayed out against the grass. he leaves too.
and while gokudera runs back down the streets from which he came, where he was raised and put to the test. anger injected into his veins, sitting quietly underneath his skin until it rises and bursts. hemorrhages. yamamoto lays in the grass, basking in the last days of what had seemed to be an eternal summertime bloom where nothing could touch him.
just goes on living. not crying at the pain, or swearing at the losses. hands pounding, blood rushing; none of that mess. it’s just good-natured fun.
written for cross_chord
he seems to laugh with the utmost freedom. this careless, head-tossing sensation of summer that creeps back into their bones and their muscles.
“you don’t make any sense.”
“since when to people have to make sense?”
(laughs. one, two, three. hands up to the sky and fighting his way through battles. nicks and scratches and bruises floating to the surface of his skin like water lilies.)
“you aren’t on the top of the world, yamamoto, goddamn. grow up.” gokudera just swears under his breath; he never learns anything, never takes in the pains of the battles. just goes on living. not crying at the pain, or swearing at the losses. hands pounding, blood rushing; none of that mess. it’s just good-natured fun.
“but i am on the top. the best, i’d have to say.”
and the clouds float on, endless streams of water up in the sky waiting to be pulled down by his fingertips. the summer sometimes makes him delirious, so he thinks he can. “sun’s fuckin’ bright as hell.”
“i love it.” and he means it.
“you’re too honest.” gokudera, forcing his body up against gravity, trying harder than if yamamoto had tried moving up instead of splayed out against the grass. he leaves too.
and while gokudera runs back down the streets from which he came, where he was raised and put to the test. anger injected into his veins, sitting quietly underneath his skin until it rises and bursts. hemorrhages. yamamoto lays in the grass, basking in the last days of what had seemed to be an eternal summertime bloom where nothing could touch him.