Gokudera. Prince and Pauper.
Hayato doesn't mind how dishwater leaves its stain on his hands, nor how rain tangles in his hair, nor how there's never a place open for him, never an inch of space cleared. In fact, he welcomes it, the stench of independence, and the gritty feel of a world doused in misery and cold rain and cigarette smoke.
But some things bothered him - the beat-up old piano in the last shithole he'd worked in, the one which felt like old wood and like it still had a ability to carry a tune and a story, if he'd let it - the sight of soft-silk hair and delicate fingers, of the sunlight flashing off silk dresses, of lips ripe as grapes in vaguely-remembered faces - the kindness of ignorant strangers, who'd offer him a coin or two when he was down on his luck, smiling encouragingly on the downtrodden kid on the doorstep, feeling the glow of their christian charity, because they didn't know he was - or rather, had been - Gokudera, old weath and castles with turrets and armies, a childhood of tossing airplanes over a vast courtyard and riding the Italian fields on the backs of princes.