transitional state.
Remember me? All I can say is that if someone were paying me four bucks a word these past months, I'd still be flat broke. I owe so many apologies; first and foremost to theprerogative, for the present that was too, too long in the making.
The prompt was 59, backs against the wall. I still haven't progressed beyond ch. 233, which is where I was the last time I saw you, which means that this is likely massively AU. I hope you'll forgive me.
Most people live life as if it's about getting closer: to other people, to goals, to the finish line. Not Gokudera. He knows closer can be perilous, like the edge of a cliff.
Picking his way down the corridor, he comes to a stop just outside the doorway, scrubbing absently at the skin peeling around his elbows. A glance finds Yamamoto with his hands plunged inside his bike, bolts strewn messily near his knees. He looks up when Gokudera appears, slips him the usual half-grin and turns back to his work - pauses when Gokudera doesn't leave, stays standing in the hall, arms folded.
His surprise isn't hard to understand. The base they've bundled up and shunted into is a sprawling, concrete nest; so much space that their garrison of Moscas could have separate rooms if they wanted, and that means contact away from the hotspots (kitchen, bathroom) is rare and deliberate, nine times out of ten.
Stalling, Gokudera eyes the 'skylight' - a hole Spanner blasted through the garage ceiling to cut his bottomless electricity consumption. Moss has started spreading from the edges, a green stain creeping outwards that will eventually bring down the roof. Not one of Spanner's better ideas, but they've long learned that for matters unrelated to plugging things into something else, the technician is terrifyingly impractical.
He studies the dust hovering in the single beam of light, tries to phrase his question in a manner that doesn't rot in his mouth.
“Tsuna need me?” Yamamoto asks. His face is a careful study of concentration, as if replacing a cylinder isn't a task he could do in his sleep. Gokudera stretches for resentment at the easy out, but even that has gone the way of all their resources. He must look more tired than he thought, if Yamamoto thinks to spare him pain.
Another of the strange rules adopted to keep from doing something permanent. One day, he might learn to locate those lines with wavering perimeters; for now, the best way to prevent collateral damage is not to talk at all. To deliver Tenth to his rightful position, he requires Guardians, and though sometimes it seems as if they've grown into each other like neighbouring trees, Gokudera doesn't get along with people easily. He still finds their noise intolerable, smokes to give an excuse for silence.
It's worked well so far.
“Spanner's picked up on a weird blind spot in surveillance,” he mutters. “Probably nothing. I'd go myself-”
“We don't go solo,” Yamamoto finishes heavily, rubs his palm over his chin, and that makes Gokudera think of the tense, prickly way Tenth first said it, as close to giving an order as he's ever come.
“Give me a minute,” Yamamoto says finally, stands to haul tarp over the clutter and wipes his fingers on his jeans as an afterthought.
They ride briskly to the edge of Namimori, Yamamoto lagging by a telegraph pole. He should look clumsy astride the borrowed engine, but the rearview reveals a relaxed, broad-shouldered figure. Gokudera's been growing too, except upwards and built narrow all the way down. It's not fair that Yamamoto fills out on the same portions, arms straining in shirts that hung loose before, just one in a long list of injustices.
Lambo's bike is a beast, a hulking mass of reinforced metal with headlights that could batter down a wall, worlds apart from the admittedly sleek machine Yamamoto left in the safehouse, caught in another cycle of upgrade and repair. Gokudera's own bike is fitted with modifications, paired with Sistema C.A.I. and a CPU that makes it more computer than vehicle. Yamamoto's is primitive in comparison, but maybe that's why Gokudera can't win on pure speed.
The idiot's always believed that the straightest path is the truest, instinctively, the way rain only falls in one direction. That leaves Gokudera to factor in trajectories, arcs and inclinations of a tumbling stick of dynamite.
...The only thing Gokudera has never wanted for is time, and the tangled thoughts to fill it with. Now it's all they can count on, stuck in a dry, helpless wait for a bastard who holds all the cards.
Grimacing, he braces for the final barrier, flicks on the shields with more violence than necessary. Behind him, there's an abrupt hush as Yamamoto does the same. He grits his teeth.
He's realised that the breach affects him especially. As far as he can tell, the others find it uncomfortable, grumble and shake it off. The only thing to do is rush at it over and over, get used to being pulled out and slammed back into his body because he'll be damned if he ever falls off his bike again.
In hindsight, the last thing they should have expected was for Byakuran to play fair. The ten days lapse, box weapons forced open more by frustration than Will, assembled in a nervous formation with rock-shaped bruises, scrapes and muscles screaming from abuse... Nothing.
Reborn is the only one unfazed.
Ten days become twenty. A month passes and battle plans are redrawn, maps elaborated. Irie pulls himself together long enough to suggest boundary-testing the designated warzone, because what's to stop Byakuran from lying about that too.
He and Yamamoto go, fortified by Tenth's reminders to come back safely. The only way to determine where a border is is to push past, so he does, with his fingers, until Yamamoto jerks him back bodily and shoves him towards his bike. His raised eyebrows do the talking - 'for a genius, you sure are stupid.'
The two seconds are enough to break skin. It stings a little but he can't regret it; he rubs his thumb and pointer together to feel the ragged edges. Bloodless and burning, so it's almost certainly some type of charged plasma field or laser hybrid, and to cover an area this big, you'd need an anchor. Disable the anchor or figure out a way to negate the charge...
He says as much to Irie, who drops his sandwich, and the fervent look the ex-Millefiore gives him has Gokudera backpeddling quickly, leaving Irie and Spanner to muddle through the specifics.
Maybe it's the communal pens, the new tube of antiseptic cream left on his dresser. The sharp wind tells him Yamamoto's pulled in front, moments before they hit the barricade.
It doesn't hurt when he bursts through.
The prompt was 59, backs against the wall. I still haven't progressed beyond ch. 233, which is where I was the last time I saw you, which means that this is likely massively AU. I hope you'll forgive me.
Most people live life as if it's about getting closer: to other people, to goals, to the finish line. Not Gokudera. He knows closer can be perilous, like the edge of a cliff.
Picking his way down the corridor, he comes to a stop just outside the doorway, scrubbing absently at the skin peeling around his elbows. A glance finds Yamamoto with his hands plunged inside his bike, bolts strewn messily near his knees. He looks up when Gokudera appears, slips him the usual half-grin and turns back to his work - pauses when Gokudera doesn't leave, stays standing in the hall, arms folded.
His surprise isn't hard to understand. The base they've bundled up and shunted into is a sprawling, concrete nest; so much space that their garrison of Moscas could have separate rooms if they wanted, and that means contact away from the hotspots (kitchen, bathroom) is rare and deliberate, nine times out of ten.
Stalling, Gokudera eyes the 'skylight' - a hole Spanner blasted through the garage ceiling to cut his bottomless electricity consumption. Moss has started spreading from the edges, a green stain creeping outwards that will eventually bring down the roof. Not one of Spanner's better ideas, but they've long learned that for matters unrelated to plugging things into something else, the technician is terrifyingly impractical.
He studies the dust hovering in the single beam of light, tries to phrase his question in a manner that doesn't rot in his mouth.
“Tsuna need me?” Yamamoto asks. His face is a careful study of concentration, as if replacing a cylinder isn't a task he could do in his sleep. Gokudera stretches for resentment at the easy out, but even that has gone the way of all their resources. He must look more tired than he thought, if Yamamoto thinks to spare him pain.
Another of the strange rules adopted to keep from doing something permanent. One day, he might learn to locate those lines with wavering perimeters; for now, the best way to prevent collateral damage is not to talk at all. To deliver Tenth to his rightful position, he requires Guardians, and though sometimes it seems as if they've grown into each other like neighbouring trees, Gokudera doesn't get along with people easily. He still finds their noise intolerable, smokes to give an excuse for silence.
It's worked well so far.
“Spanner's picked up on a weird blind spot in surveillance,” he mutters. “Probably nothing. I'd go myself-”
“We don't go solo,” Yamamoto finishes heavily, rubs his palm over his chin, and that makes Gokudera think of the tense, prickly way Tenth first said it, as close to giving an order as he's ever come.
“Give me a minute,” Yamamoto says finally, stands to haul tarp over the clutter and wipes his fingers on his jeans as an afterthought.
They ride briskly to the edge of Namimori, Yamamoto lagging by a telegraph pole. He should look clumsy astride the borrowed engine, but the rearview reveals a relaxed, broad-shouldered figure. Gokudera's been growing too, except upwards and built narrow all the way down. It's not fair that Yamamoto fills out on the same portions, arms straining in shirts that hung loose before, just one in a long list of injustices.
Lambo's bike is a beast, a hulking mass of reinforced metal with headlights that could batter down a wall, worlds apart from the admittedly sleek machine Yamamoto left in the safehouse, caught in another cycle of upgrade and repair. Gokudera's own bike is fitted with modifications, paired with Sistema C.A.I. and a CPU that makes it more computer than vehicle. Yamamoto's is primitive in comparison, but maybe that's why Gokudera can't win on pure speed.
The idiot's always believed that the straightest path is the truest, instinctively, the way rain only falls in one direction. That leaves Gokudera to factor in trajectories, arcs and inclinations of a tumbling stick of dynamite.
...The only thing Gokudera has never wanted for is time, and the tangled thoughts to fill it with. Now it's all they can count on, stuck in a dry, helpless wait for a bastard who holds all the cards.
Grimacing, he braces for the final barrier, flicks on the shields with more violence than necessary. Behind him, there's an abrupt hush as Yamamoto does the same. He grits his teeth.
He's realised that the breach affects him especially. As far as he can tell, the others find it uncomfortable, grumble and shake it off. The only thing to do is rush at it over and over, get used to being pulled out and slammed back into his body because he'll be damned if he ever falls off his bike again.
In hindsight, the last thing they should have expected was for Byakuran to play fair. The ten days lapse, box weapons forced open more by frustration than Will, assembled in a nervous formation with rock-shaped bruises, scrapes and muscles screaming from abuse... Nothing.
Reborn is the only one unfazed.
Ten days become twenty. A month passes and battle plans are redrawn, maps elaborated. Irie pulls himself together long enough to suggest boundary-testing the designated warzone, because what's to stop Byakuran from lying about that too.
He and Yamamoto go, fortified by Tenth's reminders to come back safely. The only way to determine where a border is is to push past, so he does, with his fingers, until Yamamoto jerks him back bodily and shoves him towards his bike. His raised eyebrows do the talking - 'for a genius, you sure are stupid.'
The two seconds are enough to break skin. It stings a little but he can't regret it; he rubs his thumb and pointer together to feel the ragged edges. Bloodless and burning, so it's almost certainly some type of charged plasma field or laser hybrid, and to cover an area this big, you'd need an anchor. Disable the anchor or figure out a way to negate the charge...
He says as much to Irie, who drops his sandwich, and the fervent look the ex-Millefiore gives him has Gokudera backpeddling quickly, leaving Irie and Spanner to muddle through the specifics.
Maybe it's the communal pens, the new tube of antiseptic cream left on his dresser. The sharp wind tells him Yamamoto's pulled in front, moments before they hit the barricade.
It doesn't hurt when he bursts through.