Symmetry [July 31st] [5927] [Reborn!]
Title :: Symmetry
Prompt :: July 31st, “I need you so much closer” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Tsuna; 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 175
Summary :: He is becoming accustomed to the sound of his breath.
Notes :: Becaaause it is almost August now aaand that means I am moving in with my very own Gokudera (pekori ♥) next month holyfuckingshit. ♥♥♥ (Meant to be set early in the TYL arc.)
He is becoming accustomed to the sound of his breath.
It is a subtly acquired thing, like the cloying scent of cigarettes (left on his own clothes, his skin, his tongue), like the flaring of dynamite at the corners of his eyes (and now, he doesn't flinch, thinks only He's here, he's here, we're safe, we're home); and he lies above him in the dark and hears.
There is a rhythm even in these softest stirrings of air - the sharply cresting waves of worry, the slow denouments into sleep - and he does not allow himself to wonder if it would also match his heart, if it would somehow match his own, if reaching up a hand to seek out skin on skin and pulsepoints on pulsepoints would provide them with answers.
And when he wakes, the sound is the first thing into which he falls, by which he realigns and rights his world, and neither does he dare to ask himself why.
Prompt :: July 31st, “I need you so much closer” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Tsuna; 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 175
Summary :: He is becoming accustomed to the sound of his breath.
Notes :: Becaaause it is almost August now aaand that means I am moving in with my very own Gokudera (pekori ♥) next month holyfuckingshit. ♥♥♥ (Meant to be set early in the TYL arc.)
He is becoming accustomed to the sound of his breath.
It is a subtly acquired thing, like the cloying scent of cigarettes (left on his own clothes, his skin, his tongue), like the flaring of dynamite at the corners of his eyes (and now, he doesn't flinch, thinks only He's here, he's here, we're safe, we're home); and he lies above him in the dark and hears.
There is a rhythm even in these softest stirrings of air - the sharply cresting waves of worry, the slow denouments into sleep - and he does not allow himself to wonder if it would also match his heart, if it would somehow match his own, if reaching up a hand to seek out skin on skin and pulsepoints on pulsepoints would provide them with answers.
And when he wakes, the sound is the first thing into which he falls, by which he realigns and rights his world, and neither does he dare to ask himself why.