With Malice toward None
Author:JellyStar
first is the cliff
A man's life is nothing but a black smudge upon the scroll of life.
A man's life is nothing but a breath of morning dew.
A man's life is nothing –
It's Gokudera's voice, but it feels like he's speaking in Yamamoto's head. Why is he there? It's not his funeral. He's not even sitting next to Yamamoto. He's up on the black podium beside the black coffin, testing out the black microphone.
They are a family of little words. It takes bravery, courage beyond Yamamoto's own strength, to whisper, "A man's life is but a single drop of water freely plunging fast from the precipice of a cliff only to fall fettered to the stream once again."
Gokudera fails to penetrate the silence. But it's all right. Today, it's more than enough to even speak. Today, he feels is bleaker than his own father's funeral, because, well, it just isn't him, this time, right? It is all of them, they're all hurting, and nothing –
-- nothing, but –
Maman sits in the front row. Kyoko is beside her, Haru close on the other side. At times like this, the women must sit and the men must stand if only to fabricate a facade of familiarity, if only to simulate a semblance of security.
"But," Gokudera tremors, "But – I would like to think that the drop that was the Vongola Tenth splattered and sprayed until all of us got a little wet, all of us became a little affected. I would like to think that we were all fortunate enough to be touched by the – the – most – boss – friend –"
(Nothing but what you meant to others.)
It's a sunny day of black suits and black guns and black sunglasses hiding black-ringed eyes and black black frowns.
They're all a little wet around the eyes by the end.
and then there was
Two knocks and a threatening pound means Gokudera is at the door. Bianchi just melts her way in, never mind the cost of three-pronged locks. Maman is the politest, but since she arrives with Iemitsu the door simply falls from its hinges. Yamamoto can't decide if it's probably for the better that the door is gone anyways, because Ryohei charges in a moment later and just barely misses hitting the door jamb.
Nonetheless, here they are. This is Yamamoto's family. This is what he needs to protect.
Reborn arrives late – not that this is a set meeting, of course. Reborn has been the harbinger of hesitant news as of late; they're not quite sure they want to see him.
"What're we going to do now? Sit like mice waiting for the trap to snap?" Reborn says. His voice is too low for his lanky adolescent legs. "Don't be ridiculous. You've all got to disperse."
So they hide until Yamamoto has no idea where they all are. Because Reborn is the best hitman the Vongola have. Because there is no one else to make the decisions that matter.
And then Gokudera dies, and well – screw it, you know? Screw Reborn, except he can't be screwed anymore because Reborn is dead too and there is no one left no one left –
What is a guardian when there is no one left to protect?
Yamamoto can't stand another funeral, can't stand the pomp and circumstance as though the deaths were inevitable and the only way forward is to push it aside. They're in danger, but Yamamoto is in danger of losing his own mind if he doesn't let this grief out.
It's a dam of grief a fucking dam(n shame).
So he doesn't go; he loiters around the corner convenience store instead, trying to remember which brand of cigarettes Gokudera smoked.
"Here," a box brushes past his ear. He can tell from the purple nails that it's Bianchi, so he grabs it and takes one out.
They've got their backs to dirty brick wall and their asses on black asphalt before Yamamoto lights his cigarette and takes a drag. He coughs embarrassingly, but Bianchi doesn't laugh.
"Goku—"
"Rebo—"
Their hands brush and pull away. "I'm glad my brother knew a guy like you," she says bluntly, "He was always rather difficult."
"Haha, I'm sure he hated me."
"I'm sure he hated me too. He was always so stubborn. Couldn't ever let go of the past." She looks wistfully away, and Yamamoto imagines memories he doesn't have.
"I – I think I loved him. More than Tsuna." He looks feebly to the side, doesn't stop the tears falling like rain on a cloudless day. Tsuna would have let him, he thinks. Tsuna would have understood.
Bianchi doesn't speak, so Yamamoto tries. "Is it wrong that I blamed Reborn for Gokudera's death?" There is no vengeance; he is pure injustice.
She slaps him hard, but the tips of her nails don't scratch. "That was for Reborn." And then she leans over and pushes him down on the black black asphalt, her lips insistent on his. "This is for Gokudera."
He is barely eighteen and she is twenty-three, but that's not the reason why it feels like sin.
time ticking too trippingly on the tongue
The heater's on but his heart's still cold.
The radio plays the latest baseball game; the television is tuned on a cooking network. Bianchi is in the kitchen fixing her own dinner. There will probably be leftover sushi or purple meatballs in the refrigerator; Yamamoto will come later and warm up something that doesn't resemble toxic waste and dream that every bite tastes like home.
Two years pass and all Yamamoto has learned is that it's not your choice but the options that matter.
Bianchi joins him on the sofa, her warm hands against his. She breathes a lot like Gokudera, he notices: shallow, quick breaths as though she could never rest.
"Let's get married," she murmurs in to his sweater. "Two years is long enough."
"Haha, sure. When?"
"Soon." Her voice is low. Intense.
"Tomorrow?"
"Okay."
Okay.
OK.
There isn't anyone else that's even close; let's not lose this chance.
They escape on a train to the first small town they see. She's wearing long running pants, her hair done up, and he has his assassin's suit on, gel sparkling in his hair. They sprint down the dusty path like children running from reality, up the stairs to the town office and out again, certificate already crinkling in their hands.
dropping fast, growing old
Yamamoto is a little bewildered at the first child. "Haha," he says, touching Bianchi's bare stomach with his cool hands, "I made that?" Bianchi's face is grim, and Yamamoto can't imagine that's good for the baby.
"I don't want it. It'll be too much of a burden, and who is going to take care of it? I won't be able to fight at all for nine months, and fuck, our resources are expended as is," Bianchi says harshly. Yamamoto winces; at times like this, she reminds him too much of Gokudera, and even despite all these years Yamamoto still remembers –
"Yes you do," Yamamoto says softly, "It's ours. Ours." Reborn, Gokudera, Bianchi, and Yamamoto – this child is so much in one.
She stares at him like a woman, not Poison Scorpion but a goddamn woman for once, before grabbing his hair and pulling him down. He can't see if she's crying. They don't kiss; they seek more comfort than love.
"Ahaha, what are we going to name him?" Yamamoto whispers in her ear.
"You're such a guy," she sniffs, "All assuming and wanting a son already."
then we are one
Yamamoto turns at the click of the lock. He adjusts his baseball cap and smiles at Bianchi before laying eyes on their four-year-old child.
"New haircut today?" His hair is winged like Dr. Shamal's. Or Gokudera's.
"I hope you don't mind," she says and doesn't mean it.
Yamamoto leans down and pats the black black hair of his little boy. "Looking good, sport!"
"What're you off to do, daddy?"
Bianchi sticks her head out from the kitchen, her ear pressed on the phone with Maman, in the middle of arranging the babysitter for tonight.
"Aha. Um. I have to go. Coach baseball. In Italy!"
"Really, Dad." (His kid is too smart.)
Bianchi smiles. "You're okay with Haru tonight, baby?"
The lies. They change, sometimes. The actors too, are cast and recast before the audience can learn to recognize their faces. Choices often not made but forced, dreams not forged but forgotten. The only consistency in this life is the comfort of family.
swimming down the stream, only to fall again