Fic: Sound and Fury
Title: Sound and Fury
Characters/Pairing: Gokudera
Word Count: 546
Excerpt: “The boy charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.”
The boy near the shore is ankle-deep in sand and half-way out to sea. His hair is straggly, billowing like the threadbare ends of a flag. It looks like he’s been dragged out by the tide; he idles back towards the beach, trance-like, charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.
Oh Hayato. What have you done now?
There’s a painting of a sinking galleon in the dining hall. The vessel is frozen mid-destruction, starboard splintering, waves white-tipped and ravenous. Looking at it, Gokudera can imagine lightning, screaming himself hoarse in the crow’s nest as the mast shudders and cracks below. He dislikes it, but his gaze is drawn there during meals. There are only ever three people at the table, including himself, and there’s nowhere to look but the ship or his plate. The boy keeps his head down, pretending to be engrossed with his cutlery. His father and Bianchi sit opposite, their knives and forks shrieking in the silence.
Gokudera doesn’t hate Bianchi. There’s only so much resentment a child can hold in its body without crippling itself, and all of his is directed at the man sitting beside her. Said man is unconcerned in the face of his son’s wrath, guffawing and stirring his watery stew. He knows the stringbean doesn’t have it in him to do anything yet. But the spoon, one would notice - the spoon never touches his mouth. He knows well the woman he married and Bianchi is the spitting image of her mother, Snow White and witch all at once.
It’s raining, it’s pouring. The old man is snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning. Oh, if only! If only!
On days when the fever catches up to him, Gokudera is certain Reborn blows half-truths into Tsuna’s ears, mutters about illegitimacy and tainted blood or bastard heirs, and then everyone will know how he killed his mother and hates his father and the Tenth won’t want him anymore. Even so, Gokudera will never have Reborn as an enemy because he doesn’t even register on the Arcobaleno’s radar. It’s pathetic how desperate for approval he is, but more than anything, Gokudera is tired of being unworthy.
On the rooftop of Namimori, hands clutching at the flimsy wire fencing, Gokudera wonders if anyone will see him if (unless) he jumps off. He never does, never dares, fumbling open a lighter with the intention of smoking until he dies (or someone sees him and takes pity).
This is the thing about the mafia. Hey, are you listening? You listening? The thing is, the mafia. It’s your life. And then it kills you, you see. Just like that. Like that - Like that -
A car upends itself in his dreams, tumbling, tumbling; it blows up in his nightmares. Gokudera is sweating when he wakes, sometimes in darkness, sometimes to sunlight warming the bed. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in a futile effort to blind. Three minutes later, the trembling subsides enough to start the coffee, and somewhere between toast and waiting for the water to boil, he’ll remember that the world is tumbling too.
Characters/Pairing: Gokudera
Word Count: 546
Excerpt: “The boy charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.”
The boy near the shore is ankle-deep in sand and half-way out to sea. His hair is straggly, billowing like the threadbare ends of a flag. It looks like he’s been dragged out by the tide; he idles back towards the beach, trance-like, charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.
Oh Hayato. What have you done now?
There’s a painting of a sinking galleon in the dining hall. The vessel is frozen mid-destruction, starboard splintering, waves white-tipped and ravenous. Looking at it, Gokudera can imagine lightning, screaming himself hoarse in the crow’s nest as the mast shudders and cracks below. He dislikes it, but his gaze is drawn there during meals. There are only ever three people at the table, including himself, and there’s nowhere to look but the ship or his plate. The boy keeps his head down, pretending to be engrossed with his cutlery. His father and Bianchi sit opposite, their knives and forks shrieking in the silence.
Gokudera doesn’t hate Bianchi. There’s only so much resentment a child can hold in its body without crippling itself, and all of his is directed at the man sitting beside her. Said man is unconcerned in the face of his son’s wrath, guffawing and stirring his watery stew. He knows the stringbean doesn’t have it in him to do anything yet. But the spoon, one would notice - the spoon never touches his mouth. He knows well the woman he married and Bianchi is the spitting image of her mother, Snow White and witch all at once.
It’s raining, it’s pouring. The old man is snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning. Oh, if only! If only!
On days when the fever catches up to him, Gokudera is certain Reborn blows half-truths into Tsuna’s ears, mutters about illegitimacy and tainted blood or bastard heirs, and then everyone will know how he killed his mother and hates his father and the Tenth won’t want him anymore. Even so, Gokudera will never have Reborn as an enemy because he doesn’t even register on the Arcobaleno’s radar. It’s pathetic how desperate for approval he is, but more than anything, Gokudera is tired of being unworthy.
On the rooftop of Namimori, hands clutching at the flimsy wire fencing, Gokudera wonders if anyone will see him if (unless) he jumps off. He never does, never dares, fumbling open a lighter with the intention of smoking until he dies (or someone sees him and takes pity).
This is the thing about the mafia. Hey, are you listening? You listening? The thing is, the mafia. It’s your life. And then it kills you, you see. Just like that. Like that - Like that -
A car upends itself in his dreams, tumbling, tumbling; it blows up in his nightmares. Gokudera is sweating when he wakes, sometimes in darkness, sometimes to sunlight warming the bed. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in a futile effort to blind. Three minutes later, the trembling subsides enough to start the coffee, and somewhere between toast and waiting for the water to boil, he’ll remember that the world is tumbling too.