so long.
The funerals have all been beautiful, appropriate, and considerate, even though they all leave the wake only begin running and fighting again. Dino has not cut his hair, he refuses, like Squalo, to start all over again until all has been said and done.
He hasn’t slept well, he’s always moving. Ivan falls first, then Bono, dominoes. He wonders if it’s terrible that he thinks most of Tsuna, and those he left to fall in the path now empty of his hopefulness. The system breaks apart, and Dino has been trying to reconnect the pieces, frayed ends of strings.
After the eighth funeral of that month (an eerily serene June), he leaves the scattering mourners; he sinks to sit on a stone bench placed underneath a sweeping willow (quintessential quiet cemetery scenery) with cell phone in hand, intent on calling Hibari Kyouya.
His brows knit, he stares at an old entry in the phonebook. This is what worries him most: that he has a remnant of the boy he taught preserved in this phone, but for all he knows, the Hibari Kyouya of the present could have been eliminated yesterday. A breeze blows, he shivers and focuses every bit of his being on that number, one link. Maybe, maybe, Hibari Kyouya is somewhere very near, at a funeral this very moment for a friend Dino doesn’t know, or perhaps he’s hiding as Dino should be, perhaps they’re very close.
He hasn’t bothered Hibari in a while, it’s true; not since Tsuna happened. And then everyone else. Dino shakes his head and presses the “call” button, straightens his back, remembers what it is to be a don.
He hasn’t slept well, he’s always moving. Ivan falls first, then Bono, dominoes. He wonders if it’s terrible that he thinks most of Tsuna, and those he left to fall in the path now empty of his hopefulness. The system breaks apart, and Dino has been trying to reconnect the pieces, frayed ends of strings.
After the eighth funeral of that month (an eerily serene June), he leaves the scattering mourners; he sinks to sit on a stone bench placed underneath a sweeping willow (quintessential quiet cemetery scenery) with cell phone in hand, intent on calling Hibari Kyouya.
His brows knit, he stares at an old entry in the phonebook. This is what worries him most: that he has a remnant of the boy he taught preserved in this phone, but for all he knows, the Hibari Kyouya of the present could have been eliminated yesterday. A breeze blows, he shivers and focuses every bit of his being on that number, one link. Maybe, maybe, Hibari Kyouya is somewhere very near, at a funeral this very moment for a friend Dino doesn’t know, or perhaps he’s hiding as Dino should be, perhaps they’re very close.
He hasn’t bothered Hibari in a while, it’s true; not since Tsuna happened. And then everyone else. Dino shakes his head and presses the “call” button, straightens his back, remembers what it is to be a don.