Crux [January 8th] [8059; 802759] [Reborn!]
Title :: Crux
Prompt :: January 8th, “ghost in the morning moon” [31_days]
Characters/Pairings :: Yamamoto, Gokudera; current 8059 and past 802759.
Rating :: PG-13
Warnings :: Spoilers for TYL arc.
Wordcount :: 1,020
Summary :: They sleep on opposite edges of the bed.
They sleep on opposite edges of the bed.
They both want the contact, want to curl inwards and pretend that something is still safe even if neither dares breathe a word; but this is a bridge they will not let themselves cross.
Not while there is still a memory of it left to cling to instead.
The sheets still smell of him, in between their bodies where he used to lay, and they breathe it in.
On the good nights, he wakes to Gokudera smoking, his back a bare, brittle arch leaning out the window. He won’t smoke on or near the bed, not anymore, and Yamamoto is vaguely curious as to why - because he’d been asked not to, once, long before (Gokudera-kun, we go through enough sheets as it is without you catching them on fire, too); because he has to struggle to preserve those last vestiges of scent that are the only things they have left; because he cannot bear to face the halfway-empty bed itself or its sole occupant or everything all at once - but he knows that the reason doesn’t matter.
He can’t even keep track of how much he’s smoking, not anymore, not beyond the sole statistic in their world nowadays that only means both too much and never enough. (But it was a game he’d played, when they were children - try to keep a close enough watch to know when he’d needed a new pack, and hand it to him before he could even reach, the cuteness of Gokudera’s resulting rage and Tsuna’s surprise being his reward if he’d won. He’d thought it all quite entertaining at the time, but there isn’t any point, now.)
And he watches the smoke curl its way out into the dark dark air like a desperate beacon, and wonders if he’s the only one who sees.
On the bad nights, he wakes to Gokudera’s voice. Not the sound of sharp-edged curses to which he is accustomed, but something softer, words spilling from gently curved lips that he knows are not for him.
They are for Tsuna, still and always and only for Tsuna, but now only Yamamoto is left to listen.
And he does, because he doesn’t know what else to do.
Because then, he thinks he might be the only one who realises no one else hears.
He had tried to tell him I love you, once, as the coffin settled against the ground and he’d thought its occupant would have wanted to hear that more than goodbye, and Gokudera had punched him frantically in the face before his lips could even finish forming the phrase. Don’t you fucking dare, he’d grit out, every word over-enunciated so as not to sound like a sob. The last person I ever heard that from was - was - and I don’t - I can’t -
Yeah, Yamamoto had said quietly, as an appeasement so they wouldn’t fight, not now, not here. Yeah.
He hadn’t added, But he never wanted to be the only one.
And he hadn’t tried saying it again.
After all, he still has hope that he can figure things out on his own.
It does not get better, and that bridge is neither crossed nor burned, a frightening husk of a thing where they must fight to even keep its foundations at all intact. But there are moments, at least, where it almost feels as if they can breathe; where the sky is clear and nothing but a beautiful expanse of darkening purples and blacks, where the wind slips in through the window and touches their cheeks, where Yamamoto smiles and Gokudera sighs.
Gokudera allows Yamamoto to touch him, then. Not on the bed, never there (and Yamamoto would never even try), but on the floor, against the walls, against the still-open window’s sill like the reckless teenagers they used to be; anywhere where it might not feel quite so alone.
They don’t speak, during, and for that they both are grateful.
Gokudera’s eyes are closed.
There are clawmarks left down Yamamoto’s aching back, a coded message all their own (come back come back come back don’t leave); and they are countered by the premature lines around Gokudera’s lips and eyes that Yamamoto cannot kiss away.
Yamamoto wishes he could ask his father if this is what it feels like to grow old, and tries to laugh instead.
He thinks that’s how he’d want to go, in the end.
If they’re back to back and the last thing Gokudera hears is his laugh and the last thing he knows is the determined press of Gokudera’s shoulder blades against his own; if they go down together fighting like hell for what they love (both memories and flesh, shouted and unspoken) -
Yeah, he doesn’t think he could complain.
But they won’t, he swears, silently, when Gokudera has fallen into fitful sleep facing away from him and the void in the middle of their bed. Not now. Not yet. Not while there are still things to fight for here.
He knows that Tsuna wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, knows that Tsuna wouldn’t mind the wait. It’s probably the only other thing he really believes in, anymore.
He watches Gokudera breathe.
And in the mornings, Gokudera will give a sleepy, instinctive smile, hand reaching out by habit before he is even fully aware. (Tenth? Tenth, are you awake? Here, let me help you out of bed before that idiot wakes up and starts laughing in your ear-)
And every morning he pulls his hand away as if burnt, clutches it to his chest and hisses bitterly between his teeth; fumbles wildly for the cigarettes left on the bedside table with his other hand. (Perhaps that’s why he refuses to smoke near the sheets, to give himself an excuse to escape to anywhere that is not there.)
Yamamoto wonders if, one day, he could be fast enough to catch his hand, be strong enough to keep it held fast in his.
And he wonders if they could somehow heal enough for the ache in their empty hands to ever go away.
Prompt :: January 8th, “ghost in the morning moon” [31_days]
Characters/Pairings :: Yamamoto, Gokudera; current 8059 and past 802759.
Rating :: PG-13
Warnings :: Spoilers for TYL arc.
Wordcount :: 1,020
Summary :: They sleep on opposite edges of the bed.
They sleep on opposite edges of the bed.
They both want the contact, want to curl inwards and pretend that something is still safe even if neither dares breathe a word; but this is a bridge they will not let themselves cross.
Not while there is still a memory of it left to cling to instead.
The sheets still smell of him, in between their bodies where he used to lay, and they breathe it in.
On the good nights, he wakes to Gokudera smoking, his back a bare, brittle arch leaning out the window. He won’t smoke on or near the bed, not anymore, and Yamamoto is vaguely curious as to why - because he’d been asked not to, once, long before (Gokudera-kun, we go through enough sheets as it is without you catching them on fire, too); because he has to struggle to preserve those last vestiges of scent that are the only things they have left; because he cannot bear to face the halfway-empty bed itself or its sole occupant or everything all at once - but he knows that the reason doesn’t matter.
He can’t even keep track of how much he’s smoking, not anymore, not beyond the sole statistic in their world nowadays that only means both too much and never enough. (But it was a game he’d played, when they were children - try to keep a close enough watch to know when he’d needed a new pack, and hand it to him before he could even reach, the cuteness of Gokudera’s resulting rage and Tsuna’s surprise being his reward if he’d won. He’d thought it all quite entertaining at the time, but there isn’t any point, now.)
And he watches the smoke curl its way out into the dark dark air like a desperate beacon, and wonders if he’s the only one who sees.
On the bad nights, he wakes to Gokudera’s voice. Not the sound of sharp-edged curses to which he is accustomed, but something softer, words spilling from gently curved lips that he knows are not for him.
They are for Tsuna, still and always and only for Tsuna, but now only Yamamoto is left to listen.
And he does, because he doesn’t know what else to do.
Because then, he thinks he might be the only one who realises no one else hears.
He had tried to tell him I love you, once, as the coffin settled against the ground and he’d thought its occupant would have wanted to hear that more than goodbye, and Gokudera had punched him frantically in the face before his lips could even finish forming the phrase. Don’t you fucking dare, he’d grit out, every word over-enunciated so as not to sound like a sob. The last person I ever heard that from was - was - and I don’t - I can’t -
Yeah, Yamamoto had said quietly, as an appeasement so they wouldn’t fight, not now, not here. Yeah.
He hadn’t added, But he never wanted to be the only one.
And he hadn’t tried saying it again.
After all, he still has hope that he can figure things out on his own.
It does not get better, and that bridge is neither crossed nor burned, a frightening husk of a thing where they must fight to even keep its foundations at all intact. But there are moments, at least, where it almost feels as if they can breathe; where the sky is clear and nothing but a beautiful expanse of darkening purples and blacks, where the wind slips in through the window and touches their cheeks, where Yamamoto smiles and Gokudera sighs.
Gokudera allows Yamamoto to touch him, then. Not on the bed, never there (and Yamamoto would never even try), but on the floor, against the walls, against the still-open window’s sill like the reckless teenagers they used to be; anywhere where it might not feel quite so alone.
They don’t speak, during, and for that they both are grateful.
Gokudera’s eyes are closed.
There are clawmarks left down Yamamoto’s aching back, a coded message all their own (come back come back come back don’t leave); and they are countered by the premature lines around Gokudera’s lips and eyes that Yamamoto cannot kiss away.
Yamamoto wishes he could ask his father if this is what it feels like to grow old, and tries to laugh instead.
He thinks that’s how he’d want to go, in the end.
If they’re back to back and the last thing Gokudera hears is his laugh and the last thing he knows is the determined press of Gokudera’s shoulder blades against his own; if they go down together fighting like hell for what they love (both memories and flesh, shouted and unspoken) -
Yeah, he doesn’t think he could complain.
But they won’t, he swears, silently, when Gokudera has fallen into fitful sleep facing away from him and the void in the middle of their bed. Not now. Not yet. Not while there are still things to fight for here.
He knows that Tsuna wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, knows that Tsuna wouldn’t mind the wait. It’s probably the only other thing he really believes in, anymore.
He watches Gokudera breathe.
And in the mornings, Gokudera will give a sleepy, instinctive smile, hand reaching out by habit before he is even fully aware. (Tenth? Tenth, are you awake? Here, let me help you out of bed before that idiot wakes up and starts laughing in your ear-)
And every morning he pulls his hand away as if burnt, clutches it to his chest and hisses bitterly between his teeth; fumbles wildly for the cigarettes left on the bedside table with his other hand. (Perhaps that’s why he refuses to smoke near the sheets, to give himself an excuse to escape to anywhere that is not there.)
Yamamoto wonders if, one day, he could be fast enough to catch his hand, be strong enough to keep it held fast in his.
And he wonders if they could somehow heal enough for the ache in their empty hands to ever go away.