Saying goodbye was never easy.
Except for him. Only him. Always him. Because there was no need to say goodbye.
Murdered by the very poison that could have saved him—such a sad, romantic death.
How very Italian.
How Mafioso.
It couldn't have been him. There was an absence of the scent—no, heartache—of cigarettes and sweat and the subtle cologne that he used—what kind of anniversary present is this, baseball idiot—every day.
There was only the stench of ash and burnt leaves and however much it was like the cigarettes that he coveted so much it would never be as familiar or loving or as Gokudera, if at all.
As proclaimed.
Yamamoto was never good at saying goodbye.
Only at saying hellos and sparkles and smiles and laughs and Good morning, Goku-chan!
A last memory, word, smile, kiss was all that was needed.
He loved how when he made toast for him, it would always be slightly burnt. It always tasted delicious.
Goodbyes were – I love you—overrated.