a fool's journey.
A 'what comes after' story. Yamamoto. Gokudera. Tsuna.
This is how it all goes down, after the end.
Gokudera Hayato: Loving the dead, jumping at shadows, fastest shot still around.
Yamamoto Takeshi: Autopilot.
*
He wakes to a mouth that feels full of cotton, Sistema C.A.I. revisions crumpled but intact where he left them, tucked beneath his orange juice. Across the aisle, men in business suits are digging into their bacon and eggs.
"-just in time for breakfast." Yamamoto slides over a laden tray, two of almost everything, all quick and easy grin, his own brand of sunshine. Gokudera's breath hitches, face and shoulders pulling tight from the cramped economy seat, fighting the urge to turn towards the window or maybe turn the plane around. The whole world's a death trap; it's safer up here than anywhere they could run to, but fear's irrational and no amount of astrophysics is about to cure his acrophobia. The third trip in as many weeks and lately, it feels like Yamamoto's the only one between him and the sky.
"You okay?" he asks now, forehead creasing, and Gokudera swallows, "Fine," picks bits of plastic off his fork and tries to eat, even though he can't, even though he's starving. When he sips, the juice is sour and bitter all at once, pulpy like the bottom of a carton. That's life, he thinks, as Yamamoto passes his coffee wordlessly, as it scorches down his throat.
*
Pulling away from Fiumicino, Italy is blinding. Something about Rome and her quiet, crumbling charm, the red warm breeze that binds him as surely as history or vengeance or blood, or any of her crowded pizzerias, black and white photographs hung haphazardly over the brickwork.
As September drifts by unnoticed, the tension slips from the frame of his back. Italy still fits, comfy like a threadbare shirt he'd stashed away. The smell of smoke and dappled archways is a little painful in its familiarity, but it rates like an itch against choosing headshots for headstones, and he'll take his pleasures where he can. Cross a major intersection or pay the bill for your caffe latte; no time to see what's really there at the corner of your eye.
He returns to the hotel in time to catch Yamamoto pushing Shigure Kintoki under the bed and if, for a moment, his old scars flare - well, it's nothing, hardly worse than a headache from too-cold gelato. He doesn't mention it, because Yamamoto's moods are touch and go, because he's trying, trying so damn hard, and like everything else in his life it's not enough.
That night, he finds answers in a bottle of Amarone while Yamamoto lies rigid but not asleep.
*
"We die with the dying." The words climb onto his lips as they're packing for Naples, and Yamamoto pauses, stares. "See," he recites softly, "They depart, and we go with them." And Italy's hooks are deeper than he thought; he's never been prone to such stupid romanticism.
Yamamoto's mouth twitches perfunctorily. He looks away, rolls up his tie. It's only partly true. They're not going anywhere. They're running out of road, idling daylight while Yamamoto's appetite roams in search for greener pastures and Gokudera maps the inverse relationship between what you want and what you get.
He takes up smoking again, for lack of other things to do. Maybe because there's no one to coax him out of it; maybe because he wishes someone would wake up enough to do so. There's no one of course, just exhaustion that follows him into the dark.
*
"Gokudera? Wake up. Gokudera!"
He would like to say he snapped instantly alert, but that sort of instinct has long departed, dulled by wine, disuse and age. Yamamoto is leaning over him, careful not to touch, eyes anxious. This close, Gokudera can see crow's feet, realises with a jolt that he has fingers wrapped around the barrel of his gun. Not all instinct, then. Not quite.
He clears his throat, snaking his hand from beneath the pillow as unobtrusively as possible, which is to say, not at all.
"Nightmare?" Yamamoto's expression melts into something like sympathy, one large paw coming down to stroke tenderly at his hair. Gokudera would be revolted, but he can't recall the last time Yamamoto was lucid and not aloof, and if it would please just last a little longer-
He wakes.
*
What is it about habits that make them so hard to break? He flinches whenever he sees black cars, thirsts at beverage menus, nicks himself shaving, kills easily, pushes the envelope, waits for admonishment that never comes.
"Gokudera, I'm tired." He says it again, petulant, drained, hilt hanging loosely in his grip. "I'm tired. Do you think that's okay?"
Gokudera blurts the answer before his throat can close up, bending to scrub the blood from his shoes. "Yeah," and it's simple, and it's alright.
Like electric birds, bullets can't touch them. They're still waiting for water to set them free.
This is how it all goes down, after the end.
Gokudera Hayato: Loving the dead, jumping at shadows, fastest shot still around.
Yamamoto Takeshi: Autopilot.
*
He wakes to a mouth that feels full of cotton, Sistema C.A.I. revisions crumpled but intact where he left them, tucked beneath his orange juice. Across the aisle, men in business suits are digging into their bacon and eggs.
"-just in time for breakfast." Yamamoto slides over a laden tray, two of almost everything, all quick and easy grin, his own brand of sunshine. Gokudera's breath hitches, face and shoulders pulling tight from the cramped economy seat, fighting the urge to turn towards the window or maybe turn the plane around. The whole world's a death trap; it's safer up here than anywhere they could run to, but fear's irrational and no amount of astrophysics is about to cure his acrophobia. The third trip in as many weeks and lately, it feels like Yamamoto's the only one between him and the sky.
"You okay?" he asks now, forehead creasing, and Gokudera swallows, "Fine," picks bits of plastic off his fork and tries to eat, even though he can't, even though he's starving. When he sips, the juice is sour and bitter all at once, pulpy like the bottom of a carton. That's life, he thinks, as Yamamoto passes his coffee wordlessly, as it scorches down his throat.
*
Pulling away from Fiumicino, Italy is blinding. Something about Rome and her quiet, crumbling charm, the red warm breeze that binds him as surely as history or vengeance or blood, or any of her crowded pizzerias, black and white photographs hung haphazardly over the brickwork.
As September drifts by unnoticed, the tension slips from the frame of his back. Italy still fits, comfy like a threadbare shirt he'd stashed away. The smell of smoke and dappled archways is a little painful in its familiarity, but it rates like an itch against choosing headshots for headstones, and he'll take his pleasures where he can. Cross a major intersection or pay the bill for your caffe latte; no time to see what's really there at the corner of your eye.
He returns to the hotel in time to catch Yamamoto pushing Shigure Kintoki under the bed and if, for a moment, his old scars flare - well, it's nothing, hardly worse than a headache from too-cold gelato. He doesn't mention it, because Yamamoto's moods are touch and go, because he's trying, trying so damn hard, and like everything else in his life it's not enough.
That night, he finds answers in a bottle of Amarone while Yamamoto lies rigid but not asleep.
*
"We die with the dying." The words climb onto his lips as they're packing for Naples, and Yamamoto pauses, stares. "See," he recites softly, "They depart, and we go with them." And Italy's hooks are deeper than he thought; he's never been prone to such stupid romanticism.
Yamamoto's mouth twitches perfunctorily. He looks away, rolls up his tie. It's only partly true. They're not going anywhere. They're running out of road, idling daylight while Yamamoto's appetite roams in search for greener pastures and Gokudera maps the inverse relationship between what you want and what you get.
He takes up smoking again, for lack of other things to do. Maybe because there's no one to coax him out of it; maybe because he wishes someone would wake up enough to do so. There's no one of course, just exhaustion that follows him into the dark.
*
"Gokudera? Wake up. Gokudera!"
He would like to say he snapped instantly alert, but that sort of instinct has long departed, dulled by wine, disuse and age. Yamamoto is leaning over him, careful not to touch, eyes anxious. This close, Gokudera can see crow's feet, realises with a jolt that he has fingers wrapped around the barrel of his gun. Not all instinct, then. Not quite.
He clears his throat, snaking his hand from beneath the pillow as unobtrusively as possible, which is to say, not at all.
"Nightmare?" Yamamoto's expression melts into something like sympathy, one large paw coming down to stroke tenderly at his hair. Gokudera would be revolted, but he can't recall the last time Yamamoto was lucid and not aloof, and if it would please just last a little longer-
He wakes.
*
What is it about habits that make them so hard to break? He flinches whenever he sees black cars, thirsts at beverage menus, nicks himself shaving, kills easily, pushes the envelope, waits for admonishment that never comes.
"Gokudera, I'm tired." He says it again, petulant, drained, hilt hanging loosely in his grip. "I'm tired. Do you think that's okay?"
Gokudera blurts the answer before his throat can close up, bending to scrub the blood from his shoes. "Yeah," and it's simple, and it's alright.
Like electric birds, bullets can't touch them. They're still waiting for water to set them free.