Antidotes [December 9th] [Gokudera, Bianchi, Tsuna; 5927] [Reborn!]
Title :: Antidotes
Prompt :: December 9th, “generations of poison, centuries of poison” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Gokudera, mentions of Bianchi and Tsuna; 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 225
Summary :: He wondered if it was something in the blood.
He wondered if it was something in the blood.
It stood to reason, he figured - the ability to turn anything into poison was just fucking freakish, and it had to come from somewhere. (He might be jaded with the world, but he had not lost quite so much faith in it that he believed it could turn out something like that at mere random.)
It stood to reason, too - the unspoken, the unacknowledged; the things he would never even think, let alone say -
He could not look his sister in the face.
(Not without the searing pain, the echoes thudding throughout his own body and making him want to curl in on himself to escape, not realising that he was only holding the pain all the more closely in the end.)
There is still an antidote for everything, she had said.
And he wondered if that was true. Wondered if there was a way to change rather than erase, to neutralise instead of nullify; to find that sort of balance point that the idiot Shamal always went on about too.
(And then there were hands in his, fingers lacing through fingers and the leftover warmth from flame warming the cold metal of his rings, his arms coaxed gently outwards from where they folded close against his chest; and his breath hitched over a silent Yes.)
Prompt :: December 9th, “generations of poison, centuries of poison” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Gokudera, mentions of Bianchi and Tsuna; 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 225
Summary :: He wondered if it was something in the blood.
He wondered if it was something in the blood.
It stood to reason, he figured - the ability to turn anything into poison was just fucking freakish, and it had to come from somewhere. (He might be jaded with the world, but he had not lost quite so much faith in it that he believed it could turn out something like that at mere random.)
It stood to reason, too - the unspoken, the unacknowledged; the things he would never even think, let alone say -
He could not look his sister in the face.
(Not without the searing pain, the echoes thudding throughout his own body and making him want to curl in on himself to escape, not realising that he was only holding the pain all the more closely in the end.)
There is still an antidote for everything, she had said.
And he wondered if that was true. Wondered if there was a way to change rather than erase, to neutralise instead of nullify; to find that sort of balance point that the idiot Shamal always went on about too.
(And then there were hands in his, fingers lacing through fingers and the leftover warmth from flame warming the cold metal of his rings, his arms coaxed gently outwards from where they folded close against his chest; and his breath hitched over a silent Yes.)