Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Praxis
Written October Twelfth, 2008
His fingers flex. From here, he can see the baseball field, muddy and warm from the rain of spring. Thick hues, vibrant sounds, and his attention is captured because Hibari's sweater is rabbit-wool, matted blacks and greys, and the collar leaves red marring where it itches against his skin. The Disciplinary Leader stares at him impassively, concrete, and he's frowning because: These are their last days, here.
Yamamoto has a thermos of hot tea and can feel the wafts of steam against his cheek when he sips, watching his classmate lounge bonelessly against the cement flooring. They are sharing the rooftop of Namimori Junior High, and Hibari is napping, or almost, in the sun. His jacket wadded into an armful and a place to rest his head; Yamamoto's lent his to the cause as well, and lunch hour is almost over. There is a static hum in the air, and the heat is mild, and he realizes with a sudden, breathless feeling that he's going to miss this place.
All the friends he's ever made, he made here; met them in the cold, sprawling hallways or on the dirt-covered field that's been so much like a second home. He was the star player even in his first year, and now he'll be leaving practice days and home runs behind because he needs to focus on his grades. Namimori's team uniform is safely placed in a plastic shopping bag, the handles crinkling into laughter with the breeze, and not even this will be with him after graduation.
He closes his eyes and relives a filmy memory of history, where papers shuffle and desks are rearranged, remembering failed exams and butchered Italian taken place in the classrooms below. But Hibari interrupts him, just as easily as Hibari always does - by returning his jacket with a perfectly aimed toss. It hits him in the face, blocking his vision, and jostles the cup of tea he's holding enough for liquid to spill on the leg of his pants. The jacket falls to the ground when he moves his head, landing in a crumpled heap by his side. Yamamoto laughs in slight embarrassment and glances around for something to dry off the mess, but finds nothing.
"You're graduating this year too, right?" He asks and wipes at it in vain, fingers pressing against the darkened fabric as if it would dry quicker with the pressure. The other boy isn't helping him; instead he's finishing the rest of his food before the bell rings with the end of lunch. His classmate nods his head, and tugs on his own blazer before placing his disposable utensils into one of Yamamoto's convenience store bags, which sits next to him and serves as the trash. Hibari yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, and almost rises.
"I'll visit. The discipline at this school must be maintained, after all. I don't trust anyone else to do it properly." He's tired, and Yamamoto knows he'll take a nap after school, too. He wonders how much sleep he gets at night, but doesn't voice his question, because Hibari is anything but weak; what he hates most is sympathy, second only to crowds. The rooftop is always empty, and Yamamoto hopes the same will be true next year.
His family's restaurant doesn't make much profit, so the baseball player's going to attend the best out of the closest schools available - which happens to be Namimori High School, the same as he suspects Hibari to be attending. The rest of his friends will probably transfer there too, and he's secretly relieved that they'll all be in one place. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the Disciplinary Leader's loafers, polished and immaculate, and he smiles, because: Even when they leave this school, the people he knows will be the same.
"Stop worrying." His friend tells him, annoyed at the dust resting on his clothes from when he had napped on the concrete. The bell will ring, and he won't tolerate either of them being late. The Disciplinary Leader enunciates each word with a low warning hum of danger. "If you can't stand on your own feet, and instead waste my time with this mawkish idiocy, then you're nothing but a herbivore. And I will have the pleasure of biting you to death."
Yamamoto laughs as he cranes his neck upwards, and he can see houses, and trees, and clouds in the sky, with his arms folded to hold his weight. He doesn't understand, almost never does; but it's spring, and the birds are chirping, and the wind picks up. Tonight it will rain, and when he comes to school in the morning the sidewalk will be damp, like the colour of Hibari's sweater in mid-afternoon sun. These are their last days here, and he's going to miss this place.
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For zombieflu
Prompt: YamamotoxHibari or vice-versa
Restless. About 800 words