un regalo per pollinia
all our songs will be lullabies in no time
by ? // for pollinia
characters/pairings: GokuTsunaYama, in a indirect way
rating: PG
warnings: none. Vaguest suggestion of slash.
wordcount: 1,330
summary: Picture this: the smoke clears and Gokudera stands - dynamite between his fingers, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, cool-guy frown - in front of a fallen Tsuna thrown to the grown by the force of the explosion.
notes: Chronologically, this is a bit all over the place, so don’t worry about the order much. I may have totally missed the comfort and support thing in the sense that I shot in the opposite direction.
Picture this: the smoke clears and Gokudera stands - dynamite between his fingers, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, cool-guy frown - in front of a fallen Tsuna thrown to the grown by the force of the explosion.
Then picture, as Gokudera often will, Tsuna's face. It's open and sharp with relief and gratitude. His lips part with a laugh, says -- "Thank-you."
So yeah, Tsuna was weak then. But sometimes, secretly, Gokudera will wish he had simply stayed that way.
¬¬-
The safety clicks.
Gokudera sighs.
-
Then - light rain and damp cigarette, Gokudera flicks his lighter, click click, an exercise in futility. It fails to catch but Gokudera still barks his thumb against the rough metal of the corner-shop lighter.
To his left, Yamamoto smiles - he might be amused. “Here,” he says, and cups his hands around Gokudera’s cigarette.
Gokudera doesn’t stop him, and the cigarette lights. But he doesn’t inhale, instead throws it to the ground and steps on it, crushes it against the wet pavement.
It’s stupid and childish and seriously melodramatic, Gokudera knows, and so its no surprise that Yamamoto’s expression is more amused and exasperated than hurt.
Gokudera really, really wants to punch him, right on that stupid fucking scar.
But he doesn’t; he just closes his eyes and tries not to think about dying.
-
(see, he remembers: cool blue hospital sheets and Yamamoto pale beneath his tan, patch gauze on his chin stained red.
“Is it okay,” asked Tsuna -hand reached out and fingertips pressed to the bandage. Tenderly, Gokudera will think later.
“Yeah,” Yamamoto cracked a grin, then winced. Tsuna made a sympathetic noise, but didn’t shift his hand. And Yamamoto, for his part, just closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
And Gokudera had looked out the window; third wheel again, thinking he’ll never get fucking used to this. )
-
His fingers slip -
A bomb drops.
The shockwave rips, and Gokudera feels vaguely numb with adrenaline.
-
"No!" Gokudera shouted - shook the bed frame. "NO!"
The head of the bed banged the wall and made the IV rattle erratically, and the patient lying still in the sheets damn near slid right off: the nurses had tried to grab Gokudera's arms, hold him back, but he gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white and held, like that'll keep Tsuna there, like that'll make it all right.
The nurses started to panic too, remember - they had called for security. But Yamamoto came instead, pried Gokudera's shaking hands from the bed frame, and then wrapped his hands around them. Whispered something low, something soothing against the back of Gokudera's ear.
But, but Gokudera couldn’t see him for the tears in his eyes, couldn’t feel him for the bruises on his palms, couldn’t, couldn’t hear him for the sound of the monitor - the sound of Tsuna's heartbeat, flat line in his ears.
But this story is old.
-
There’s the taste of something sour and heavy at the back of his throat -bile, maybe, or alcohol. Probably both. The world slurs by and the darkness burns the back of his eyelids. Gokudera chokes, and leans forward ‘til his head touches the bathroom tiles.
A hand rests on the back of his head, a voice -
“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”
Gokudera isn’t sure this happens before, or after.
-
(remember: the smell of chrysanthemums and incense, dusky:
“You don’t understand,” Tsuna sighed. He placed his hands gently on Gokudera’s curled into his shirt, trying to pull them away. “He needs me.”
You don’t understand, Gokudera had thought, swallowed. I need you.
A beat.
“Gokudera- “)
-
Understand this: Gokudera does not remember his mother’s face, or the sound of her voice. He remembers the photographs he’s seen of her, but the details from his own memory are vague and milky. What he does remember, though, is the sight of her fingers, the nubs of her knuckles, dance and slide across the piano keys.
With Tsuna there is no such pithy analogy: Gokudera feels and remembers everything, every expression, every move, every sound. He remembers the feel of Tsuna in the room, and sometimes the memories of the ghosts burn his skin and swallow; sometimes, memories choking, it’s like he’s still there watching him - but Gokudera knows that if he turns to look he’ll be alone.
The important thing to realise here is that it’s not that Gokudera is afraid of forgetting Tsuna - he’s afraid of remembering.
-
Backtrack a little now, not too far: it’s another funeral again, but isn’t it always (“Occupational hazard,” someone had laughed, once, “at least we never have to change for them” - who was it? Yamamoto?). Lips pursed and hands still, Gokudera sat and stared somewhere to the left of the coffin. There were speeches -eulogies, rather -and whispered condolences, apologies; regret and affection in a dull undercurrent hum.
You know, truth be told - Gokudera hates ceremony.
He snuck off for a smoke shortly after, watched paper and tobacco burn and breathed. Shut his eyes, leaned against cool concrete; tried to think of professional things, like death and revenge and erasure, and not stupid, pointless things like belated regret, dead loves and futility.
Tried not to think about the man in the box. Tried not to whisper his name broken into the summer air, tried not to forget to breathe.
Tried not to let him g-
-
He decides to save his tears for never.
-
“Don’t you think?!” This is Yamamoto, yelling, furious. This is rare, thinks Gokudera distantly, but that’s about all he can manage to realise at this point. His shirt is sticky and it’s likely blood (or vomit - it all washes out anyway), and he can’t seem to feel his left hand. That’s probably temporary. The smell of dynamite is still pungent on the air and he doesn’t recognise the room - there must have been a fight, he thinks.
Yamamoto lets out a ragged, angry sigh. His fingers slip on Gokudera’s arms.
“Listen,” he says, “I know you’re upset. I know this is had for you. I know you don’t know how to deal with this.”
Gokudera doesn’t think Yamamoto knows jack shit, and makes to tell him so, but before the words reach his mouth Yamamoto is speaking again. “We’re all upset! It’s hard for all of us! Stop acting like you’re the only one who cares! Cared.” A pause, Yamamoto glares at Gokudera harder. “Stop, stop acting like you’re the only one who loves him.”
Softer, now - “And he loved all of us, so I can’t stand by and let you act as though you want to die.”
And well, doesn’t that just beat all -Yamamoto looks like he might just cry and its so fucking hilarious you think you might too, but all you manage before passing out is thinking -
That’s new, too.
-
(“Yamamoto knows that people rely on him, so he knows he needs to look strong for them,” Tsuna had tried to explain, all those years ago, “But he needs to know that he can rely on me too. ” Then -
“You don’t understand,” Tsuna sighed.
If he had understood then, would it have made a difference? )
-
Picture this: the breeze blows and Gokudera kneels - flowers between his fingers, forehead pressed to cherry wood, mouth parted in a sigh, or a plea - in front of a fallen Tsuna, who lies peaceful in his grave.
Maybe he asks forgiveness, more likely he doesn’t; maybe he confesses his love, but this again is unlikely. Those words are old, tired, and saying them now seems hollow and overdue. And you know, maybe he has a gun in his other hand. Maybe not. It would be in bad taste after all.
Truth be told, Gokudera hates ceremony; but for all that, all he’s probably doing is remembering.
-
(“Gokudera-“
“Gokudera, you’ve got to let me go.“)
-
The safety clicked.
Tsuna sighed.
by ? // for pollinia
characters/pairings: GokuTsunaYama, in a indirect way
rating: PG
warnings: none. Vaguest suggestion of slash.
wordcount: 1,330
summary: Picture this: the smoke clears and Gokudera stands - dynamite between his fingers, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, cool-guy frown - in front of a fallen Tsuna thrown to the grown by the force of the explosion.
notes: Chronologically, this is a bit all over the place, so don’t worry about the order much. I may have totally missed the comfort and support thing in the sense that I shot in the opposite direction.
Picture this: the smoke clears and Gokudera stands - dynamite between his fingers, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, cool-guy frown - in front of a fallen Tsuna thrown to the grown by the force of the explosion.
Then picture, as Gokudera often will, Tsuna's face. It's open and sharp with relief and gratitude. His lips part with a laugh, says -- "Thank-you."
So yeah, Tsuna was weak then. But sometimes, secretly, Gokudera will wish he had simply stayed that way.
¬¬-
The safety clicks.
Gokudera sighs.
-
Then - light rain and damp cigarette, Gokudera flicks his lighter, click click, an exercise in futility. It fails to catch but Gokudera still barks his thumb against the rough metal of the corner-shop lighter.
To his left, Yamamoto smiles - he might be amused. “Here,” he says, and cups his hands around Gokudera’s cigarette.
Gokudera doesn’t stop him, and the cigarette lights. But he doesn’t inhale, instead throws it to the ground and steps on it, crushes it against the wet pavement.
It’s stupid and childish and seriously melodramatic, Gokudera knows, and so its no surprise that Yamamoto’s expression is more amused and exasperated than hurt.
Gokudera really, really wants to punch him, right on that stupid fucking scar.
But he doesn’t; he just closes his eyes and tries not to think about dying.
-
(see, he remembers: cool blue hospital sheets and Yamamoto pale beneath his tan, patch gauze on his chin stained red.
“Is it okay,” asked Tsuna -hand reached out and fingertips pressed to the bandage. Tenderly, Gokudera will think later.
“Yeah,” Yamamoto cracked a grin, then winced. Tsuna made a sympathetic noise, but didn’t shift his hand. And Yamamoto, for his part, just closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
And Gokudera had looked out the window; third wheel again, thinking he’ll never get fucking used to this. )
-
His fingers slip -
A bomb drops.
The shockwave rips, and Gokudera feels vaguely numb with adrenaline.
-
"No!" Gokudera shouted - shook the bed frame. "NO!"
The head of the bed banged the wall and made the IV rattle erratically, and the patient lying still in the sheets damn near slid right off: the nurses had tried to grab Gokudera's arms, hold him back, but he gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white and held, like that'll keep Tsuna there, like that'll make it all right.
The nurses started to panic too, remember - they had called for security. But Yamamoto came instead, pried Gokudera's shaking hands from the bed frame, and then wrapped his hands around them. Whispered something low, something soothing against the back of Gokudera's ear.
But, but Gokudera couldn’t see him for the tears in his eyes, couldn’t feel him for the bruises on his palms, couldn’t, couldn’t hear him for the sound of the monitor - the sound of Tsuna's heartbeat, flat line in his ears.
But this story is old.
-
There’s the taste of something sour and heavy at the back of his throat -bile, maybe, or alcohol. Probably both. The world slurs by and the darkness burns the back of his eyelids. Gokudera chokes, and leans forward ‘til his head touches the bathroom tiles.
A hand rests on the back of his head, a voice -
“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”
Gokudera isn’t sure this happens before, or after.
-
(remember: the smell of chrysanthemums and incense, dusky:
“You don’t understand,” Tsuna sighed. He placed his hands gently on Gokudera’s curled into his shirt, trying to pull them away. “He needs me.”
You don’t understand, Gokudera had thought, swallowed. I need you.
A beat.
“Gokudera- “)
-
Understand this: Gokudera does not remember his mother’s face, or the sound of her voice. He remembers the photographs he’s seen of her, but the details from his own memory are vague and milky. What he does remember, though, is the sight of her fingers, the nubs of her knuckles, dance and slide across the piano keys.
With Tsuna there is no such pithy analogy: Gokudera feels and remembers everything, every expression, every move, every sound. He remembers the feel of Tsuna in the room, and sometimes the memories of the ghosts burn his skin and swallow; sometimes, memories choking, it’s like he’s still there watching him - but Gokudera knows that if he turns to look he’ll be alone.
The important thing to realise here is that it’s not that Gokudera is afraid of forgetting Tsuna - he’s afraid of remembering.
-
Backtrack a little now, not too far: it’s another funeral again, but isn’t it always (“Occupational hazard,” someone had laughed, once, “at least we never have to change for them” - who was it? Yamamoto?). Lips pursed and hands still, Gokudera sat and stared somewhere to the left of the coffin. There were speeches -eulogies, rather -and whispered condolences, apologies; regret and affection in a dull undercurrent hum.
You know, truth be told - Gokudera hates ceremony.
He snuck off for a smoke shortly after, watched paper and tobacco burn and breathed. Shut his eyes, leaned against cool concrete; tried to think of professional things, like death and revenge and erasure, and not stupid, pointless things like belated regret, dead loves and futility.
Tried not to think about the man in the box. Tried not to whisper his name broken into the summer air, tried not to forget to breathe.
Tried not to let him g-
-
He decides to save his tears for never.
-
“Don’t you think?!” This is Yamamoto, yelling, furious. This is rare, thinks Gokudera distantly, but that’s about all he can manage to realise at this point. His shirt is sticky and it’s likely blood (or vomit - it all washes out anyway), and he can’t seem to feel his left hand. That’s probably temporary. The smell of dynamite is still pungent on the air and he doesn’t recognise the room - there must have been a fight, he thinks.
Yamamoto lets out a ragged, angry sigh. His fingers slip on Gokudera’s arms.
“Listen,” he says, “I know you’re upset. I know this is had for you. I know you don’t know how to deal with this.”
Gokudera doesn’t think Yamamoto knows jack shit, and makes to tell him so, but before the words reach his mouth Yamamoto is speaking again. “We’re all upset! It’s hard for all of us! Stop acting like you’re the only one who cares! Cared.” A pause, Yamamoto glares at Gokudera harder. “Stop, stop acting like you’re the only one who loves him.”
Softer, now - “And he loved all of us, so I can’t stand by and let you act as though you want to die.”
And well, doesn’t that just beat all -Yamamoto looks like he might just cry and its so fucking hilarious you think you might too, but all you manage before passing out is thinking -
That’s new, too.
-
(“Yamamoto knows that people rely on him, so he knows he needs to look strong for them,” Tsuna had tried to explain, all those years ago, “But he needs to know that he can rely on me too. ” Then -
“You don’t understand,” Tsuna sighed.
If he had understood then, would it have made a difference? )
-
Picture this: the breeze blows and Gokudera kneels - flowers between his fingers, forehead pressed to cherry wood, mouth parted in a sigh, or a plea - in front of a fallen Tsuna, who lies peaceful in his grave.
Maybe he asks forgiveness, more likely he doesn’t; maybe he confesses his love, but this again is unlikely. Those words are old, tired, and saying them now seems hollow and overdue. And you know, maybe he has a gun in his other hand. Maybe not. It would be in bad taste after all.
Truth be told, Gokudera hates ceremony; but for all that, all he’s probably doing is remembering.
-
(“Gokudera-“
“Gokudera, you’ve got to let me go.“)
-
The safety clicked.
Tsuna sighed.