--you said it was just a journey.
The things he carries-
One .38 caliber revolver;
Six chambers, six bullets- it's a simple, well worn model and it's solid. He came by it pretty cheaply (you don't pay for weapons you pull of corpses) and its had its moments:
'You wouldn't dare to throw dynamite about in this space, would you, Smoking Bomb? And now you're trapped, and the only way you'll get out is by killing yourself-'
'Fuck you,' he said, and drew-
If there's anyone who knows how important it is to have something there to back you up, to be there for you at the end of the day when you're that close to death and that close to dying, it's him. And if there's anyone who knows how important it is to watch out for himself, because there just isn't anyone you can trust to back you up, when it comes down to it, it's still him.
The Tenth's the only one who knows, who's seen, but he's never said anything. Never commented, except to mention once that he trusts him to stay alive. Somehow, that's what makes it hurt the most.
He still carries it with him, locked and loaded.
(The Tenth's not there to tell him otherwise, now.)
One pack of Sobranie Mints, along with a lighter;
His tastes have changed- it's less about the high, now, less about the need for that rush of peace and that heady exhiliration that it was all about when he was younger. A few years back he once convinced himself that he could give it up any time he wanted to; he's never really bothered to think about it much. Perhaps he could, perhaps he couldn't-
He still makes it through a good few every day.
It's simple enough- just duck out the door and light up outside, feel the smoke curling into his lungs. They must be tar-black by now, coal-black, and if he ever dies in a gunfight he wonders if it'll be possible to tell, even, if it's the smoke of the dynamite or of the cigarettes that choked him. Then he laughs, stubbing what's left out under his shoe.
No, that's not how he's going to die, he knows. It wouldn't be so simple.
Nothing ever is, when you come down to it. He smokes now because it's familiar- everything's (and everyone's) changed so much but he'll be damned if he lets this one thing go. It's slowly killing him, bit-by-bit, and he's going to hang on to it until the end.
When he does die, he's promised himself that it'll be with a cigarette in his hands and a smile on his lips. There'd be no better way to go.
A photograph;
It's pretty old. Worn and faded and soft at the edges, but that's what age does to things (and people). It doesn't matter, though, because he can still see their faces in it- the faces of ten years ago.
Look, it's like a joke, almost. There's the Tenth and there's him, so damn blinded by the sky that he couldn't see anything around him until- ah, but that's another story (that still hasn't ended). And there's the baseball idiot, smiling away, so cocksure and confident and it's funny how just looking at that face makes him want to hit it. It's okay, though. He doesn't feel like that anymore, and he hasn't seen Yamamoto smile in months, anyway.
Not too far from them and it's Ryohei, good old Sasagawa Ryohei. There's another one for the times. Look at him now and you'd never guess how he used to be. Now it's all Armani, Armani and Vivero and sharp edges and suits. And Hibari, who's always off somewhere but steals all the good scenes, Chrome who's just at the very edge, Lambo who's falling down stupid-
It folds easily along old creases. It should; he takes it out every night and every morning, unfolds it, then folds it again. The first and last faces he sees every day are those of the dead or dying, and he tells himself he'll be joining them soon.
It's about all he's got left to hold on to.
His phone;
It's a simple enough model, got everything you could ever want (camera, wireless access, messaging-) and it stinks of the kind of phone that you buy when you walk into a store and go 'just give me the best you have'. Sure, it works- but you could've got a better model for half the price if you'd known just what you wanted.
That's okay, though. There isn't much he's really wanted, anyway.
Go on, thumb through it. Speed dial one and- it's the Tenth, because the Tenth's always the first on his list. Number two is that damn baseball freak (he never got around to changing the ID and every time he comes close, the idiot does something that fully justifies keeping it). Three is Shamal and don't ask, don't ask, it's a just-in-case measure 'cause you'll never know when you need someone like that around, someone who's known you ever since you were born, practically. Not that he's ever actually dialled '3' on his phone but-
(you never know, all right?)
-there isn't a forth.
One, Tenth, two, Yamamoto, three, Shamal.
And every time his fingers brush by one, so eager to call and knowing all to well that no one will pick up, they pause at two and never reach the third. That's how it's always been with him.
He's never needed anyone else.
Memories;
They're made of everything he has, everything he is. The smoke of a cigarette, the spark of light from an explosion, the click of a gun's safety going off. A faded photograph, stained and torn and a phone with only three numbers stored on it.
When he's found dead in an alleyway, it's not with a smile on his lips and a cigarette in his hands. It's with his brains blown out, flies settling on his corpse and scavangers moving in. Scavangers like the man who rummages through his pockets, picking through the items with a smirk on his lips. Gokudera left nothing of himself behind, no identification, no name. For all it matters, he's just a John Doe, just another dead guy in a city with no respect for those passed on-
Hibari laughs softly, and smokes a cigarette in his memory.
This is as good as it's going to get.
This is as good as it ever was.