Fic: Dealing
To make up for my recent lack of Yamamoto, I bring TYL!angst of the 8059 variety, with just a touch of Reborn/Lambo. As usual, Gokudera has managed to land a starring role with very little effort. It’s slightly AU - basically a ‘what if they were never rescued by their younger selves?’ scenario. Not particularly happy, as you can imagine.
Title: Dealing
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 565
Excerpt: “Things don't grow well underground, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.”
There is only one patch of green land in the Vongola base. Tsuna didn't consider a garden to be very high on the list of priorities when he designed it. Things don't grow well underground after all (the air is too stale), and water is rationed by Reborn almost as strictly as toilet paper. It’s not much to look at, a bit yellow in places, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.
Uri is buried there, in that rectangular plot of grass, underneath soil sprinkled with half-bitten leeks and tomato peels. Tsuna might have been buried there too, but the strip wasn’t big enough. Glimpsing Hayato's stricken face each and every time he passes it, Yamamoto can't help but be glad of the fact.
[ The earth on its axis turns without a sound. Tsuna’s coffin is left unsealed, not from lack of caring but the glimmer of hope that remains unspoken, even as they struggle to be free. The tenth has been shot on many occasions. Perhaps this time it’s just taking him longer to wake up. ]
Hayato still stammers apologies in his sleep, forever explaining away the tears when they wake up side by side, shoving at Yamamoto’s chest - there’s nothing between us; you are you and I am me - rolling out of bed to stumble through another day. He dons an expression he thinks is neutral; truthfully, he just looks sad. Yamamoto hasn’t the heart to tell him, and neither, apparently, does anyone else. It’s as painful to watch as Nana’s brave grief the last time they see her, before Iemitsu spirits her away, like losing Tsuna all over again.
[ The world they are aboard continues to revolve, spinning to the beat of a fatalistic drum. ]
Hayato cries when Uri dies, even though the cat is mangy and unco-operative, averse to baths, only as real as a bit of dying will. He doesn’t cry when Tsuna dies, and Yamamoto is still trying to figure out what that means.
[ They are birds on a wire. A spark, and the world stops. ]
Yamamoto thinks they should have maybe made a plaque, some sort of tombstone, because Uri’s final resting place is rapidly turning into a compost heap. He came and went as he pleased in the manner of felines, fell victim to tre-ni-sette and that was the end of him. It’s been a number of years; he can’t blame Haru for forgetting, especially when she and Kyoko labour over the stove, when they are perpetually running out of bandages, when anyone taking out the trash runs the risk of being shot in the head.
[ This is war. ]
They are all madmen, hitmen, and Yamamoto cannot tell the difference anymore. One of these mornings, he will not get up. One of these mornings, he won’t want to. For now, he focuses on Hayato in lieu of his own scars and half-healed sores, tries his best not to overthink and fry his brain.
Reborn doesn’t comment on the way they’re drunk on each other. It isn’t practical to the cause, certainly, but Yamamoto has lost sight of the cause for a long while now, and nothing Reborn says on the matter will ever be convincing, not when he and Lambo...
Well.
[ They are all hypocrites, in the end. ]
Title: Dealing
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 565
Excerpt: “Things don't grow well underground, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.”
There is only one patch of green land in the Vongola base. Tsuna didn't consider a garden to be very high on the list of priorities when he designed it. Things don't grow well underground after all (the air is too stale), and water is rationed by Reborn almost as strictly as toilet paper. It’s not much to look at, a bit yellow in places, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.
Uri is buried there, in that rectangular plot of grass, underneath soil sprinkled with half-bitten leeks and tomato peels. Tsuna might have been buried there too, but the strip wasn’t big enough. Glimpsing Hayato's stricken face each and every time he passes it, Yamamoto can't help but be glad of the fact.
[ The earth on its axis turns without a sound. Tsuna’s coffin is left unsealed, not from lack of caring but the glimmer of hope that remains unspoken, even as they struggle to be free. The tenth has been shot on many occasions. Perhaps this time it’s just taking him longer to wake up. ]
Hayato still stammers apologies in his sleep, forever explaining away the tears when they wake up side by side, shoving at Yamamoto’s chest - there’s nothing between us; you are you and I am me - rolling out of bed to stumble through another day. He dons an expression he thinks is neutral; truthfully, he just looks sad. Yamamoto hasn’t the heart to tell him, and neither, apparently, does anyone else. It’s as painful to watch as Nana’s brave grief the last time they see her, before Iemitsu spirits her away, like losing Tsuna all over again.
[ The world they are aboard continues to revolve, spinning to the beat of a fatalistic drum. ]
Hayato cries when Uri dies, even though the cat is mangy and unco-operative, averse to baths, only as real as a bit of dying will. He doesn’t cry when Tsuna dies, and Yamamoto is still trying to figure out what that means.
[ They are birds on a wire. A spark, and the world stops. ]
Yamamoto thinks they should have maybe made a plaque, some sort of tombstone, because Uri’s final resting place is rapidly turning into a compost heap. He came and went as he pleased in the manner of felines, fell victim to tre-ni-sette and that was the end of him. It’s been a number of years; he can’t blame Haru for forgetting, especially when she and Kyoko labour over the stove, when they are perpetually running out of bandages, when anyone taking out the trash runs the risk of being shot in the head.
[ This is war. ]
They are all madmen, hitmen, and Yamamoto cannot tell the difference anymore. One of these mornings, he will not get up. One of these mornings, he won’t want to. For now, he focuses on Hayato in lieu of his own scars and half-healed sores, tries his best not to overthink and fry his brain.
Reborn doesn’t comment on the way they’re drunk on each other. It isn’t practical to the cause, certainly, but Yamamoto has lost sight of the cause for a long while now, and nothing Reborn says on the matter will ever be convincing, not when he and Lambo...
Well.
[ They are all hypocrites, in the end. ]