you died out on the streets, smiling at me
Without a care, Gokudera threw the death stained katana aside where it landed with a metallic discord on cobblestones. Desperately, his hands tried to staunch the free flowing blood; all too aware at how the silk shirt was eating up the ugly red. His fingers were slippery in Yamamoto's lifeline and he wasn't sure if the hammering of a heart was his own, or the mangled organ under his palm.
"You idiot, you fucking idiot-!" The words fell out in a rush, a river of hate and upset and love, mingled with the salt from Gokudera's cheeks.
Yamamoto had mete death out enough to judge his own wounds, and knowing the belly wound went from his navel to his opened jugular, Yamamoto just touched Gokudera's arm. Gentle, like he had all the time in the world. But there was only time for one last smile, before the muscles in his black, bruised face sagged and the eyes dimmed.
His final chuckle fled, flying out into the stormy night sky.
trying hard doesn't pay off
He'd only entered the logo competition because he knew Tsuna was a huge fan of the Namimori Skylarks. He never expected to win. (Okay, he might have put in five hundred and nine entries but, he'd only imagined something useless like a signature on a baseball card.) This was beyond anything he'd prepared himself for.
Hands deep inside his pockets, Gokudera glared at the clueless star standing in front. Yamamoto-idiot was scratching his head, a stupid welcoming grin on his face, which made the silver haired man more and more tempted to shove it the competition for some time chain-smoking his worries away. That or dunking Yamamoto Takeshi's head into a toilet bowl. The stupid company's decision of only one guest, and the policy of non-transferable prizes was still making his blood boil and it was only for Tsuna's sake he'd even bothered to show. A migraine was settling in, making him clutch the digital camera tighter between his fingers. The faster this day was done, the better. The busybodies in the hotel foyer had realised a baseball star was amidst them and were stopping to stare. No amount of scowling helped.
"So, Gokudera-kun, was it?" An unamused glare bounced off that sunny disposition. Once the sponsors were dismissed, Gokudera was out of his seat, without one word to his willing companion. With a shrug of his shoulders and a confidant smile, Yamamoto followed. An eyebrow started to tick when the baseball player matched each stride as they exited out the revolving doors.
Any effort, even just a word, was completely ignored. Gokudera's silence didn't seem to bother the international star even when they hit the freezing outside, and he held open the waiting limousine door open for his guest.
When both were seated, comfortable on the leather upholstery, with a bottle of champaign eagerly popped open, the sportsman opened his mouth. There was a look in his eyes that Gokudera recognised. He'd seen it in himself, when Tsuna appeared. He couldn't help it; he looked at the door lock next to him. Only too late did he realise they were down.
"Gay or just confused?" It was accompanied by a completely fearless, suicidal grin.
Gokudera squeezed his eyes shut, his fists flexing and twitching, and slowly, ever so slowly, started to count down the amount of jail time he'd spend for killing one Yamamoto Takeshi, if he factored in the different variants for guilty, not guilty or if he accepted a plea bargain after a number of years.
the end of the world, as we know it
"I am so sorry, Jyuudaime!" Gokudera was floundering, a guilty hangdog look on his face. "…I'm a failure."
The room was littered with mathematical theory books, practise sheets and a calculator lodged in the wall after Gokudera's fifth failure. Nana had come and gone with dinner and midnight tea, Reborn asleep in his hammock. Even the seven volumes Gokudera had shipped in from Sicily by express mail didn't provide any answer of use. The final answer eluded them.
"N-no, Gokudera-kun! Um, it's okay, haha, it's okay… I'll, um ask Haru, if she'll take a look at it… sometime tomorrow…"
Yamamoto, who was lounging on Tsuna's bed, dropped his pencil, stopping mid-way in his essay. His watched as Tsuna planted his head into his hands, despairing over the summer holiday homework and Hibari's inevitable pummelling. The Discipline Committee was carrying out homework checks these days and Hibari enjoyed bruising anyone out for a misspelt word.
Familiar words rang out. "Cheer up, Tsuna, it won't be so bad!"
Leaning over without permission, the Rain guardian stole the sheet of paper from Gokudera's grip, his head almost brushing his classmate's cheek. Too exhausted to protest more than three expletives and army-rolling away, the young Italian collapsed onto the low table nearby. Tsuna had perked up slightly at the words, but those shoulders dropped when he no doubt remembered that Yamamoto and maths didn't work well.
Through half-lidded eyes, Gokudera watched as Yamamoto slowly read the words, wondering if the idiot realised his eyes morphed in and out of the killing state of mind. It was maybe wrong to call it the 'killing' mode, but rarely did normal activities pull out the hardness and determination in Yamamoto. In that hazy exhaustion, he wondered how Yamamoto might react if he used him as a pillow. He might be a bit more comfortable that the table edge.
"Doesn't x=1?"
The room froze. Faster than he'd ever been all day, Gokudera snatched the paper from the baseball idiot's warm hand. For a terse moment, he scanned the work, forcing eyes to read carefully over each line. One his eyes hit white at the bottom of the page, his face drained itself of colour. He stared at the Rain guardian, who was laughing at something Tsuna had said.
"………%#&$!"