The Fall Of

"Are you happy?" he asks. He drawls, for once, that snarl gone, that scowl vanished, something softer in it's place that contains an equal amount of patronization. Anything looks pretty on that face now; you're in too deep, right?

And if that's not too much of a bad thing then maybe you can grow up, just maybe - it's about time you focused on 'now', after all. It's about time for a lot of things. Doesn't his question just draw all that into your answer? Something you'll think about in detail and reply to with one word?

He looks up at you, again, brow furrowed. It's all innocent, like he thinks you didn't hear him properly, like he thinks you're human. So there it is, again:

"Are you?"

He turns away, noting the apathy across your face – he notes it with a disappointed frown creasing his soft features. Your being irritating again, he's thinking; you're acting better than he is, and it's true, so he won't stand for it.

You'd answer, really. You try to, staring out into the forest. Overlook the coffin, overlook death, it's not like it matters, not like he matters, not unless it's you trapped in there for eternity. Even if that happened, even as a corpse you have so much confidence in your malleability for tough spots that you'd get out alive even if it isn't the way you got in. Stalling, your mind accuses. When did you become so human?

"Yes."

He turns around, catches your gaze. Gives you a look of heartbreak, like something a child would do. Like Lambo shot all of them, this horror and this disbelief, when they lost him. Like 'how can you say that, why are you lying, you stupid bastards, this is all your fault.' But not exactly.

He's been crying, so obviously from the flushed skin and the wet eyes, the fact his eyebrows are tugged, and like strings for a puppet, the rest of his face is caught up in the pull. It's a wince, maybe. Perhaps the catalyst of tears. You overlook all of this, too. He is a man, he can survive on his own. This thought also makes problems – you are in love with a man, of all things. You're using the phrase 'in love', even though you're certain that's not what it is at all. It's something much more fleeting, unadulterated but vulgar, much like you are yourself. Something that, even if true, you would deny.

Add that together and you only get one thing. You run in circles until he takes the first step. It crunches under his shoe, the grass dry, innocent flowers that sprang from nowhere appearing as shrivelled buds when he takes the third, when you should tell him to step back again. You can't bring yourself to, so you come up with something else that does save you from confrontation, effectively stop him moving any further.

It's while you speak that you realise he's still by the coffin's side. Still far away from you.

"Are you?" you say. You can play it off intelligent, like a question of great trivia, like asking if he'd prefer a bullet or a blade. You have a habit of wrecking simplicities, a habit of creating intensity in the mildest of situations. He's informed you of such, over and over; God, do you need rest.

He seems bitter. Runs a hand along the lining of the coffin, eyes expertly avoiding the VONGOLA printed beneath a bundle of roses. He brushes the petals with his fingertips, smooth, soft; like velvet, like the insides of the damn thing. "Doesn't really matter now." He's right – but you'd never be so much of a sentimentalist to admit it. "… where are you going now?" Gokudera murmurs. It sounds like discussing business. Stalling, you're mind accuses again, and the jury all agree and they set the chains on your wrists and haul you away, sentence you without a second though; when did you become so human?

You don't know why he'd ask when he knows the answer. You frown, a little. Get frustrated, only ever a little. "Your place," you answer, although you'd much rather reply with pointed silence.

He turns, stares at you. Like Bianchi did. Like, 'filthy liar, how fucking dare you try to pull this shit on me.' Almost exactly, from the way his eyes are glistening.

"Why the fuck?" he snarls. Angry, always angry. Face contorted in pain, and sadness, as if he's asking for the plug to be pulled. And in a way, he is. In a way he means a lot more to you than you ever did to him but, well. How are you ever going to figure something like that out now?

You stumble for words. Everything hurts, all of a sudden. Clothes all start constricting and boy, did the place just heat up, did someone gas this place, am I sweating out of, what the fuck are you talking about.

You're fucking exhausted. You're insides are clenched. Anxious, your mind accuses. For what, another muse asks. "What the –"

"Hibari?"

You turn away from him, a split second. Turn your back on him, so ignorant, so unbeknownst. Yamamoto's standing there, in the trees, wearing an expression like curiousity, like 'why haven't you visited, it's been weeks, it's been a month, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.' Wearing an expression like guilt, and you have no idea why.

Until: "… Who are you talking to?'

And your throat closes over. Turn, stare, blink; what the fuck are you…

(Like, 'call fucking Shamal or – '

Or…?)

And he's gone. Like reassuring the Tenth, the family. Like allowing your fingers to curl around his and bring him close and hold him and like 'I'll be fine, it'll be fine.' Just not exactly.

Disclaimer: I don't own KHR.

Author's Notes: Quickly done. Finished product? Not too bad, I hope. Angst, not-quite-love and Gokudera. An enjoyable tale to tell, yes?

Thanks for reading, guys.

Synonym