Nostalgia
Taking off without anyone's consent, he had flown back to that house in Italy for the first time in years, to the home he grew up in. He had left it and all its memories behind long ago.
Gokudera drove on the same road she took on that fateful day. Although he hadn't stopped completely, he did look down the trench his mother 'fell' in. He knew it wasn't an accident. It couldn't have been. A part of him wanted revenge, but that was no longer possible.
He reached the mansion. Looking at it from the outside, he could see that his family no longer was. The rumors were true. He leaned against his car, cigarette in hand. "The old man really died, huh?"
With his father gone, the entire family had collapsed. His old home was abandoned. He walked through the front door. He ran his fingers along the walls of the house as feelings of nostalgia ran through him.
The bomber headed upstairs to his old room. It had remained untouched from the time he left it. He then went to his favorite room in the house: the piano room. Here the most beautiful melodies were taught to him.
Mixed emotions evident on his face, he stared at the grand piano he once adored. He had abandoned the only thing his mother had ever taught him. Gokudera's lament quickly became anger. He knew little of his mother's death. He wanted answers, but the only ones who would have them have long since passed.
Why was it that he was always the last to know?
Gokudera snapped out of his thoughts. In the corner of his eye, he saw it: the piano. As he drew near, he hesitated to touch it. His fingers hovered over the lid, eager to play, though he hadn't in years. He had sworn off the piano when he joined the mafia. He had dedicated so much of his time to serving Juudaime and the Vongola that playing the piano hadn't even crossed his mind.
He slid onto the stool and took a deep breath, his green eyes still staring at the piano. He's a man. What has he to fear? It's nothing but a mere instrument. It cannot cause him any harm. He's faced greater enemies in his life than this immobile piano.
He lifted the lid. He lined his fingers on the keys and closed his eyes. He drew in another breath before playing a familiar tune. He hadn't played in almost twenty years, but his skill was evident. The beautiful melody filled the empty house. He played one song after another. Oh, he had missed the sound that it could make! He missed the slippery feel of the keys under his fingers as they danced atop them.
His playing sped up. His fingers began to move faster than his mind. The beautiful melody became a frightening one. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the music slowed down. He couldn't control what he was feeling. He slammed his fists on the keys out of frustration. He hunched over on to the piano for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
Why had he come here? What did he have to gain? Would the hollow feeling he felt inside be quelled by a trip to an empty home?
He slowly rolled himself up and sat up straight. He lined his fingers on the keys once more. He let the music flow from him as he tried to suppress his emotions. As a hitman, he had learned this skill very well. But perhaps it was this very skill that had led him to his ruin.
The Storm Guardian continued his concert. His soul reverberated along the walls of the empty home. The more he played, the more cheerful he became. It had been so long since he had felt like this; somehow, the music eased his pain.
As talented as he was, Gokudera stumbled over the keys a few times. As he thought of what to play next, he felt a hand rest on his, as if guiding him to the correct keys. It was small, warm, and familiar. For the first time that day, he hadn't felt alone.
It hadn't occurred to him that he was anything but alone. Even with the Tenth as his support, there were still times where he had felt lonesome. Everyday he put on his brave face and acted as the tough, right-hand man to Vongola Decimo, suppressing all emotions that he deemed unnecessary. And everyday, he lied to himself a little bit more.
When he played the piano, he needed not to be anything other than himself. It was his creative outlet, his means to be free. Regardless of who was watching, he felt solace in the keys.
And that was enough.