Zenith [March 9th] [Tsuna, 5927] [Reborn!]
Title :: Zenith
Prompt :: March 9th, “awkward as a wound on my bones” [31_days]
Characters/Pairings :: Tsuna, 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Set either during or sometime after the TYL arc, so spoilery and likely will not make much sense without knowledge of it.
Wordcount :: 345
Summary :: It is the difference, he thinks, between knowing you will never return home and being welcomed back there so fiercely that you never want to leave again.
There are dark circles festering beneath his eyes, that even the Dying Will flames cannot quite burn away. (He imagines that they only cast strange shadows on his face, bouncing off furrowed brows and blinking lashes to simply accentuate the circles themselves.)
Recurring dreams, he wants to say; tastes the word nightmares on the tip of his tongue, but none of it feels quite right, and so he keeps his peace.
The only constant is confinement.
He dreams of the coffin, his coffin; of waking in the dark with only the sickly sweet scent of flowers to help find his way. (Down, down, down; trap the air in your lungs and refuse to release; keep it there like a secret, a lesson, so that you may finally learn.) He dreams of the sun, of the lid lifting upwards to blind him with light; of hands.
Of bodies, a body, hovering above his and keeping him held just as close. (A different scent than the flowers, here, even if no less heady - an ashburnt bitter thing that he chokes out in a gasp, like a newborn babe beginning to struggle its way into the world. And he wonders, vaguely, when he wakes, if that gasp mightn’t have been a name.)
He is loathe to call them recurring, because even for all of their apparent similarities - the being so unable to move, the blindness only adding to it - the feel of them cannot be called the same at all.
It is the difference, he thinks, between knowing you will never return home and being welcomed back there so fiercely that you never want to leave again; and he wakes with either clenched fists or a chest that swells. (And he will bring his fingers up to touch his shoulders, lightly, almost feeling the bruises he remembers being left there as if they can be an anchor still.)
And perhaps it will only stop if he reaches out and takes those hands, becomes both guided and guide.
(It is not a leap of faith he fears, after all.)
Prompt :: March 9th, “awkward as a wound on my bones” [31_days]
Characters/Pairings :: Tsuna, 5927 implied
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Set either during or sometime after the TYL arc, so spoilery and likely will not make much sense without knowledge of it.
Wordcount :: 345
Summary :: It is the difference, he thinks, between knowing you will never return home and being welcomed back there so fiercely that you never want to leave again.
There are dark circles festering beneath his eyes, that even the Dying Will flames cannot quite burn away. (He imagines that they only cast strange shadows on his face, bouncing off furrowed brows and blinking lashes to simply accentuate the circles themselves.)
Recurring dreams, he wants to say; tastes the word nightmares on the tip of his tongue, but none of it feels quite right, and so he keeps his peace.
The only constant is confinement.
He dreams of the coffin, his coffin; of waking in the dark with only the sickly sweet scent of flowers to help find his way. (Down, down, down; trap the air in your lungs and refuse to release; keep it there like a secret, a lesson, so that you may finally learn.) He dreams of the sun, of the lid lifting upwards to blind him with light; of hands.
Of bodies, a body, hovering above his and keeping him held just as close. (A different scent than the flowers, here, even if no less heady - an ashburnt bitter thing that he chokes out in a gasp, like a newborn babe beginning to struggle its way into the world. And he wonders, vaguely, when he wakes, if that gasp mightn’t have been a name.)
He is loathe to call them recurring, because even for all of their apparent similarities - the being so unable to move, the blindness only adding to it - the feel of them cannot be called the same at all.
It is the difference, he thinks, between knowing you will never return home and being welcomed back there so fiercely that you never want to leave again; and he wakes with either clenched fists or a chest that swells. (And he will bring his fingers up to touch his shoulders, lightly, almost feeling the bruises he remembers being left there as if they can be an anchor still.)
And perhaps it will only stop if he reaches out and takes those hands, becomes both guided and guide.
(It is not a leap of faith he fears, after all.)