So here's the long-awaited [ha, yeah right] part 2! Yes folks, there's more angst and emo-ness, so if you're feeling shitty, come, gather 'round! It'll make you feel better about your life--I know it made mine better. XD

Yes, I feel bad for Hayato. He's totally my favourite character in this show (with Squalo and all his rage a close second, followed by Bel and Flan and...well, they're all kind of badass, but I'll stop the list there), but I think he's secretly emo on the inside, so I had to write this all from his point of view. It just wouldn't have worked out with anybody else. So that's why he's all emo. *nods*

Oh, and congrats on getting through the long part. This chapter is uber short. I mean it. It's like, a third of the length of the last chapter. So you made it over the hump! :D

Disclaimer time! Reborn = not mine. Even more tragically, Hayato = not mine. It's a travesty.

It had been weeks since I had slept so soundly. Granted, it was only three hours' worth of sleep, but it was still bliss. When the shrill buzz of my alarm clock went off, I shut it off and dragged myself out of bed, based solely on instinct. The immense, soul-crushing emptiness had returned, dragging what was left of my old spirit down into an abyss. Shambling into the bathroom, I started the shower, allowing the water to heat up as I gathered my clean school clothes. Upon returning to the bathroom, I tossed my clean clothes before stripping out of my boxers, tossing them aside somewhere. I stepped into the shower, waking up slightly; as soon as the water touched the hours-old burns on my arm, it was as though I was being stabbed repeatedly on each of my burns.

I gasped, more in surprise than pain, before falling to my knees. I hadn't thought that the water would burn so; the sensation that a thousand needles were pricking my flesh was overwhelming. Seconds ticked by like hours as I embraced the pain, gradually acclimating myself to its harsh sting. Once the feeling died down to a dull ache, I was able to move again, and continued with my morning routine.

I hurried through my shower, dressed in record time, and came across a minor problem when I reached into an upper cabinet in the kitchen to retrieve my breakfast. The school uniform called for short-sleeved shirts...all of my burns were clearly visible, having been inflicted upon my forearms. Those marks wouldn't go unnoticed; I had to do something to obscure them. Shutting the cabinet, I moved to the other side of the kitchen, opening a lower cabinet where I kept my first-aide supplies. I kneeled down, searching through the unorganized mess for bandages.

It took longer than expected, but I eventually located them, pulling them from the mess in a tug-of-war fashion. Naturally, with my luck, I scratched my arms on the inside of the cabinet, elevating the residual pain. To be honest, I reveled in it, tempted not to cover the wounds for a few moments. When the ecstasy subsided, I wrapped my arms, hiding the reddish-black marks behind a veil of white cotton, pulling the material taught to ensure that it stayed in place throughout the day. Once I accomplished this task, I stole a glance at the clock. I had to leave, now; grabbing my books on the way, I darted out the door. Running at a leisurely pace, I managed to meet the 10th at the usual spot.

It was in this way that the next few days began for me.

The school day itself was something of a routine. I went through my classes in a daze, not entirely paying attention to what was going on. I certainly had no qualms about missing parts of class here and there to go to the roof for a smoke. Hibari invariably would find me, I'd make a smarmy comment, and I would allow him to beat me senselessly. Yamamoto wouldn't be pleased, and he would always have something to say about it, and I would ignore it. The two of them continued their sexual abuse; I slowly became desensitized to it, struggling less and less each time they touched my body: I simply didn't care anymore.

Yes, that apathy washed over me, drowning my former self in its heavy oppressiveness. What I once had been suffered, suffocating under the weight of this ennui. A part of me was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even the rapture brought on by mutilation was losing its impact; by the end of the week, I wasn't feeling anything anymore.

I would have been depressed, if I could feel anything.

Saturday afternoon, after school ended, I sauntered some distance behind the 10th, Yamamoto, and Ryohei; I couldn't recall where we were headed, but I somehow got roped into joining them. Funny how I would give anything to spend the day with the 10th only a week ago, and now it seemed to be such a task. My mind was almost perpetually blank, a thought or two would float by, probably concerning my general failure at life; it was the mental incarnation of my apathy, my general emptiness and lack of reason for being.

This afternoon was the first time I considered taking drastic measures to end my lifelessness.

Apparently we were having lunch at the baseball-nut's dad's sushi place; he led us in with a cheery greeting to his father. The four of us sat down at the bar: turf-head on the end, then the 10th, then myself, and finally the baseball-nut. After we took a seat, his father happily bounded behind the bar and prepared to assemble our food. I saw a pattern of unnecessary happiness in this family.

The process of putting the food together couldn't hold my conscious attention (admittedly, my gaze came to rest on his quick hands, but my mind was in another location entirely), but there was something that ripped my mind from its existentialist ruminations. That knife, meant for slicing the log-like rolls into individual pieces, stole away my attention; the sharpness of the blade, the way it sliced so easily through the flesh. Something about its sleek design, its sharp edge, the shine of the steel...

"Gokudera, here's your food," Yamamoto informed happily, placing a plate in front of me. When he caught sight of the strange way I was staring at that knife, his face fell slightly. I don't think the others noticed.

Following our free meal, the four of us left the restaurant and headed toward the 10th's house. I think they said something about getting started on homework or God knows; I wasn't paying attention--my thoughts had lingered on the smooth sharpness of the knife. I couldn't help but imagine, in gory, graphic detail, the amount of damage one could--I could--do to their body with such a device. I had to know just what amount of pain I could inflict on myself--how much blood I could shed--before death took me. I had to.

My thoughts shifted to the acquisition of a blade. Where could I obtain one? Did I already have one? Well, I did have a few kitchen knives, but something told me that they wouldn't quite cut it--no pun intended. There had to be somebody who had one--

"Oof," I grunted, running into somebody. I guess I had been to enthralled with the prospect of a new torture for myself that I hadn't been watching where I was walking.

"Alright, Gokudera, I know something's up," Yamamoto stated factually, glaring down at me as though he was menacing.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He flicked his attention back toward the 10th and turf-head, making sure that they were inside before returning to me. Yanking my arm from my side by the wrist, he continued, "What's under these bandages?"

"I told you already, I got in a fight." It was a pretty pathetic lie, but I didn't care enough to think up a good one.

"I don't believe that for a minute." I forgot that he sometimes had a brain in there. "What really happened?" When I refused to answer him, he grabbed a piece of the cloth, ripping it quickly and unraveling it from my arm. Although the marks had begun to heal, the pinkish-brownish marks of the healing burns were still recognizable. I wasn't sure what to make of the look on his face.

"What...what did you...what did you do?" he finally stuttered out, apparently shocked and incomprehensive.

"Nothing of ill consequence," I replied, dragging my arm back and rewrapping it, tying the torn ends of cotton together. "It's fine."

"Were those...burns? How did you get burns like that? I can't even begin to imagine what you could use--"

Fate has always had a twisted sense of humor when it came to me. Before I even had a chance to come up with a lie, my half-finished carton of cigarettes fell from my pocket onto the ground at my feet, label-side up. Yamamoto, surprisingly, figured it out.

"You burned yourself with cigarettes? Why would you do such a thing?" Why was he so depressed about it?

"None of your business," I snapped, glaring at him. It wasn't any of his business, anyway; what did he care?

"Gokudera...how long have you been mutilating yourself?"

"It's not--"

He grabbed my upper arm forcefully, driving my attention directly into his stern eyes. "Hayato, how long have you been mutilating yourself?"

I don't know what it was about him in that moment, but something about his forcefulness wouldn't allow me to gloss over this question like I had been; I was compelled to answer truthfully. "Tuesday--Wednesday morning," I corrected, accounting for the hour.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Gokudera, what's wrong with you?" In that one moment, he sounded so sorrowful; I was almost empathetic. Almost. But it was as close to an emotion as I had come in quite some time now. "What's happening? You've changed, and we don't know why."

"I have not."

There was a silence following that half-assed denial. Both of us knew, at that time, that I had become something different, something...somehow...wrong. That realization struck me harder than when I had noticed that my old self had begun to drown in the sea of emptiness that had yet to entirely engulf me; Yamamoto merely seemed to be bothered by the fact that I had changed at all. I didn't care about him, though; I was engulfed in my own physiological horror, too enthralled to notice that the baseball-nut had moved closer toward me. I didn't even register his existence until he wrapped his arms around my shoulders in an embrace.

"I want to help you," he assured, holding me tighter than usual. "Don't push me away."

I wanted nothing more than to push him away. Unfortunately, he'd pinned my arms at my side, so I couldn't. There wasn't a way out without some manipulation; I wouldn't have done it if I could feel guilt. "Look, Yamamoto, I don't want to talk about it," I murmured, mustering up enough hurt in my voice as I could. "I'm trying to deal with it on my own, and I need to be able to do that. Please understand."

"Why? You know that I'm always here to help..."

I shook my head. "It's something I need to be able to work through for myself." God, if this got any sappier, I would vomit.

At least he bought it. Releasing me, he muttered, "I don't understand, but if it's something you have to do...I guess I can't stop you."

Was it wrong if my first thoughts were that I would be able to get out of this encounter without being molested?

"I just...I just want to make sure you're okay," he continued, his hand lingering on my shoulder. "Please don't hurt yourself. There are people who care about you."

Right. Just like I was the legitimate son of a mafia boss. "I'll do what I can." Somebody, please, make this conversation end.

"Oi! Yamamoto! Octopus-head! Are you guys coming or what?" turf-head shouted from the 10th's window.

I chose to ignore the insult. "I have something at home to take care of; I'll see you later," I managed to choke out as I turned in the direction of my apartment. "Tell the 10th I'm sorry." Force of habit, I suppose; I wasn't sorry at all. I think Yamamoto caught that as I walked off toward my home; I think I didn't care.

The afternoon light was beginning to fade by the time I got home that evening; I'd dragged my feet and taken as much time as possible to get back to the apartment. My thoughts had been fleeting again, but they were all about the blade. What was I going to do about it? Where was I going to get a hold of a good blade?

After walking in the door to my apartment, I began my search for a blade in the kitchen. I had a few knives, most of which were dull or rusted or far too small for my uses. The cleaver seemed rather much like overkill to me; I didn't think that hacking off my hand would yield enough pain over enough time to make it worth my while--after all, the pain wouldn't last more than half an hour, and then I'd be dead and handless. No, the cleaver wouldn't do.

I continued my search for a few more minutes; there wasn't anything worthwhile in my kitchen. At least, I didn't think there was until I got to the last drawer. Inside was a lone knife--a breadknife, nonetheless. It wasn't the smooth, perfect blade that Yamamoto's dad had, but it was sharp and jagged. I stared at the breadknife for a few moments, contemplating the possibilities. Pocketing it, I left the kitchen, moving into the living room and flopping down onto the couch. I stared blankly at the wall in front of me, hoping desperately that I could, perhaps, suppress enough apathy to bring myself to cut my flesh, just to see if I could feel the pain.

A few hours passed, I think. No thoughts really managed to permeate my consciousness, making it difficult to tell just how long it had been. I guess it didn't matter how long it had been, but I finally dragged the blade from my pocket, taking a moment to inspect the blade in the dim, incandescent lighting of the room. Still as sharp as I first thought it was, but now it seemed even more jagged; perhaps it was the intense shadows cast by the light. Either way, it seemed significantly more appealing now than when I had picked it up before.

Momentarily, I set aside the knife; I had to remove the bandages from my arm still. Carefully, I untied the knots before unwinding the dulled, greying bandages from my appendages, tossing them thoughtlessly to the floor. It didn't matter where they landed, I figured; I was the only one ever in the apartment, and I was fully aware of what I was doing. Picking up the knife again, I positioned it across my weaker forearm, hoping to find a perfect place for a cut.

I gritted my teeth, slicing into my arm. The teeth of the knife ripped at my flesh, dragging the muscle to the surface before shredding it entirely. Yes, it was painful, and yes, blood gushed all over the cheap, disgusting carpet, staining it crimson. But...But...

I dropped the knife on the floor, splattering more blood. Not a damn thing. I still couldn't feel a damn thing. There was a sensation of pain, but nothing like that first burn so many nights ago. I would have felt irritated, if I could feel anything.

That damn ennui had stolen the only thing I could feel; there was no reason for living with no sensation. I hoped that I would bleed to death so I wouldn't have to live a life without feeling.

My hopes went unfulfilled.

Ah! That's the end of this part! One more part to go! See ya at the update.

~Lord of Impeccable Timing