Sometimes, when Yamamoto locks himself in his room and closes his eyes and presses his hands over his ears, he thinks he can hear laughter. It's such a distant and foreign memory, though, that it always takes him a while to recollect it, and when he does, the laughter is terribly faint. Just barely there, nothing but a pale ringing in his mind, like an elusive, beautiful butterfly that he can never catch.
But that laughter is his lifeline. It's what he clings to when it all becomes too hard to bear, when he breaks down in the living room and grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, when the already empty space in his once-lively life becomes just a bit emptier.
That used to never happen. Just two years ago, he never would have just sank to his knees and gave up and thought screw it, i don't care anymore, and if he had there would always be Tsuna there or Gokudera or Ryohei or Chrome or even Reborn to give him a hug, or a slap on the back, and tell him that everything will be alright.
(But nothing's going to be alright anymore.)
Now, all he has is a fading memory of laughter to make it through. And sometimes even that's not enough, sometimes he can't even remember it at all, because god how long has it been since he heard a real laugh?
A year.
It's been a goddamn year since Yamamoto last heard somebody laugh.
But that makes sense, because a year ago was when everything fell apart.
He counts on his fingers - Tsuna, Gokudera, Lambo, Ryohei, Chrome, Squalo, Lussaria, Levi, Belphegor, Fran.
Exactly ten killed.
That leaves him, Reborn, Hibari, Rokudo, and Xanxus. Looking at that list, those four were always the strongest, anyway, so what the hell is Yamamoto doing there.
(He clearly shouldn't be alive.)
He's tried to leave before - stood on the edge of a building or something - but then he'll chicken because he's such a damn coward, and he'll just stand there on the edge while a suffocating feeling builds in his chest and he tries to swallow down everything.
His phone lies lost somewhere, probably collecting dust. He doesn't dare touch it, refuses to, because he knows that if he snaps open that old blue thing, all the memories of them, the little snapshots of forgotten happiness, will come pouring back. And no, that won't be good, that won't make him feel better, that won't help him remember laughter - all that will do is fill him with fake smiles and so much guilt and shame that he will surely break to pieces.
But then, he's already broken anyway.