Fanfic: Need
Title: Need
Author: saying_sooth
Rating: PG13
Pairing: 8059
Warning: Angst, chara!death
Notes: This has been on my computer for the past six months, I kid you not. I wrote it when it was still 2008, and then I read chapter 243 and I was like: I have prophetic powers. @__@
Yamamoto has never learned how to knot a tie. He's 27 and in the Italian Mafia, wears a suit and tie almost everyday; it's incredible that this bit of practical knowledge has eluded him throughout all the years. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just because Gokudera has always been there to tie his tie for him, and also to tuck in his dress shirt, button his sleeves, brush imaginary dust off of his shoulders and perform all sorts of minute adjustments.
You're not cut out for this life, baseball-idiot. I gotta look out for you so you don't disgrace the family.
There's been times when Gokudera's been on a mission or otherwise not able to be by Yamamoto's side in the mornings - that's how Yamamoto has picked up the rest of his morning routine. But there was always a preknotted tie waiting for him in the closet, loosened and ready to slip on. He's never learned the art of the Windsor Knot or whatever else Gokudera does with his ties, because there's never been a need to.
Imaginary hands straightening his tie, a set of serious green eyes focused on the task. Yamamoto laughed, causing the green eyes to flick up to his face and a scowl appear on that face. 'Stay still, idiot.' 'Haha, ok!'
Yamamoto stares at his closet. Suit jackets left half, dress shirts hanging on the right, dress pants on shelves and shoes lining the floor. Everything is sorted by color and cut, due to Gokudera's meticulous mind. He's the one that picks out Yamamoto's outfits anyways. The ties and other miscellaneous things are stored in a corner, ties on a special tie-rack and the small accessories (cufflinks, watches, etc.) neatly stacked in their boxes and labeled with Gokudera's precise handwriting.
Right now, Yamamoto is standing outside his closet with his unsheathed sword held loosely in his hand, his heart racing like he's facing an enemy in foreign territory. He wishes he could just keep wearing the suit he already has on, but blood has soaked through much of it and Gokudera's mantra of Never Disgrace The Famiglia So Always Look Presentable was pounded into his head a long time ago. Thus he ventures inside, haphazardly picks out a dress shirt and pair of pants and hurries his way to the bathroom. There, he strips off his bloody clothing and puts on his clean outfit, avoiding the sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.
He should take a shower. He knows there is dried blood crusting on the side of his face, on his hands, under his fingernails and in his hair. At the very least he should clean off his sword, which is gleaming crimson from where it is propped up against the side of the bathtub. He'll do that in a minute, Yamamoto promises himself. Right after he's done here.
Gokudera taught him the correct way to wash blood off of fabric a long time ago - soak in cold water for a couple of hours, soap and scrub at it until the stain goes away. If it doesn't, revert to bleach for whites and other laundering chemicals for colors, but always try the soap and scrub first because excessive chemicals ruin a piece of clothing with time. When Gokudera first taught Yamamoto this trick, they were 15 years old and the dynamite user was already a pro at it.
Yamamoto leaves his clothes to soak in the tub, cleans off his sword, turns off the lights and falls into bed. It's late and he doesn't feel like taking off his clothes. They're clean, it's fine. He falls asleep almost immediately.
...He dreams of Gokudera.
The next morning he wakes up and sees that dried blood - the stuff from his face that he should've but didn't wash off last night - has rubbed onto his pillow. He stares at the empty pillow beside his and reaches out to touch it, but then remembers there is also blood on his hands and doesn't dare breach that distance. Gokudera wouldn't like it if he desecrated his pillow. Yamamoto gets up, soaps and scrubs his suit from last night, watches as the blood diluted with water runs down the drain. The blood is nice this time, doesn't take bleach to get out. He hangs it up to dry above his bathtub and wipes his hands distractedly - and now look at what he's done, there are stains on his shirt.
Idiot.
Yamamoto agrees. There is another hesitant voyage into the closet, and his hands tentatively pick out another shirt, a suit jacket to match, a pair of shoes and a belt. He should dress for the day now, get ready for the daily morning meeting with the rest of the Guardians. Then he comes to the ties, and his hand trembles over them. His eyes widen, his heart races and suddenly he is punching the wall, sobbing brokenly, outfit dropped and abandoned on the floor and he doesn't care because Gokudera is dead, not alive, not here and not conscious and what will Yamamoto do without him.
He reaches out blindly - sweeps the accessory boxes from their places, yanks the jackets and shirts from their hangers, kicks over the shelves of neatly pressed dress pants and starts undoing (ripping apart) the ties Gokudera had prepared for him so long ago. Because if he made a disgrace of himself, if he was messy and slovenly and erased all signs of Gokudera's meticulousness, then Gokudera would have to come back, right? Gokudera who wouldn't be able to bear the thought of Yamamoto vandalizing the Vongola Family's image: he'd just fight his way out of Hell and kick down Yamamoto's door and appear, all furious and alive and 'Stop being stupid, baseball-idiot' which really meant 'I'm here to help, don't worry'.
Tears smother Yamamoto's eyesight, his fingers fumble on the knots in the silk and he brings the tie up to his face like a handkerchief, like a blindfold. He curls up on the floor and keens for Gokudera like a child, because he needs him. The Famiglia may need Gokudera too, Tsuna may need the support and his Right-Hand but Yamamoto can't live without Gokudera and why, why...
In not very many minutes Yamamoto recovers, and the tears stop streaming. He sits up, looks around at the wreckage of clothing around him and is ashamed of his thoughtlessness. He can't be like this now, indulge in his loss and let down the family. Gokudera isn’t here anymore, was killed last night by a shot to the heart that was meant for Tsuna. Now Yamamoto has to move on like Gokudera would want him to.
He picks up an outfit that doesn't seem too wrinkled and scrambles out of his closet, almost tripping over himself as he moves for the bathroom. He showers quickly (his suit from last night gets wet again, oh well), towels himself dry and dresses himself as if his hands were Gokudera's and strove for perfection. As he tightens the tie around his neck, he feels like he's tightening a noose. Only Gokudera was fit to become Right-Hand Man, and Yamamoto will do no good for himself if he tries to assume that position. The stress and burden will kill him someday. But at least he'll be able to face Gokudera proudly when he makes his own trip down to Hell, say something like 'Haha, I didn't let you down, Gokudera!' and then collapse into his lover's arms for all eternity. That's all he can look forward to now.
So Yamamoto heaves one last deep breath and makes his way to the morning meeting, where he surprises everyone (Reborn included) with his composure and seriousness. A few days later, at Gokudera's funeral, he doesn't show any emotion.
Many years later, when the world has stabilized again and there is time for reflection, people qualified to comment will say this: on the day Gokudera died, a new Right-Hand Man for the Vongola was born, and Yamamoto's innocent soul was killed.