i"H-Hey Gokudera... Looks like you're better off than I am."
"Stop grinning, you fucking idiot. Look how many men we lost."
"O-Oi. Could you grab Kintoki for me?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Go-Gokudera. Wh-What are you--"
"I hate you. Just fucking/i die ialready"/i
Green eyes flew open, a murderous glint highlighting them in the dim light of the dawn. Silver strands brushed against lithe shoulders as the Italian slowly sat up from where he had fallen asleep on the small couch in his apartment lounge. Vivid, blood-filled images of the recurring dream flashed on the back of his eyelids every time they flickered closed - an abandoned katana lying in a puddle of enemy blood, a shredded suit clinging to a mauled, tanned body, wide brown eyes staring into his fearfully, the black handgun lying on the ground, surrounded by sticks of sabotaged dynamite...
It wasn't a dream.
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was one of the greatest memories Gokudera ever held.
It was also one that he knew everyone else had figured out. The family had mourned the Rain Guardian's passing in the expected fashion, but the bomber had noticed all those looks - Tsuna's clear disappoint as he asked his Storm Guardian if he was okay, Ryohei's glare across the meeting table, Lambo's fleeting glances as he tried to avoid Gokudera's empty eyes, Chrome's sadness as she told him that everything would be alright, Hibari's sneer and mutterings of cannibalistic herbivores. Gokudera noticed it all and he was completely unfazed by it. He continued to live life as though nothing had changed, and found himself smiling more sincerely than he had before, earning him more odd looks from the lower-down's in the family.
Everyday since Yamamoto had died, the Storm Guardian would relive that moment in his dreams, reigniting the adrenaline rush he had felt when he had shot the swordsman and rid himself of the idiot permanently - or at least he had thought so. Beneath his murderous and guiltless actions, something continued to niggle him in the back of his mind. It drove him to visiting the baseball idiot's grave everyday religously, alone, in the darkening hours of the evening. He would never say anything, or do anything more than stand and stare at the text in the dimming light and remember the last words the idiot had ever said to him and wish he could go back in time and stop himself from doing what he had done, just so he could repeat those words - words that the Italian hated so badly but could change his life forever.
iI always loved you, you know?/i