Okay, sad chapter is sad. Um, yeah. Don't own KHR :P
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Symphony of Perfection
From four to eight, Marcello Hayato Bianchi-Fontanegra IV (A/N: Return of the name! Dun-dun-dun!) was known lovingly by the music world as the legendary "Mozart of the Modern Age". He was gifted, truly gifted, and contended with the greats like Beethoven, Bach, Chopin and Rachmaninoff, mastering their works and twisting them into his unique style, as well as creating his own memorable music. He knew a masterpiece when he heard one. Music was art, music was the purest expression of his soul, music was his first love. It became his life. There was nothing more beautiful to him than a well-played piece, full of life and passion and mystery and unshakeable dignity. He could always see the person and the emotions behind a song. In fact, a song wasn't just a compilation of noise – it was a living, breathing creature, to be nurtured and loved just as anything else deserved to be. Music moved him more than anything. And when he would sit at that piano, he would shut his eyes and breathe in the undetectable scent of genius, and his fingers would fly across the keys as he poured his heart and soul into every note, every movement.
He ran away from it all then, and he regretted it the moment the realization of what he had just given up came to him. Tears built up and fell from his eyes and they did so every night for years. But he couldn't turn back. No one in the right mind would. And so he left his piano to gather dust in a big, empty ballroom, never to be touched or loved by anyone again.
Hayato Gokudera couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the Tenth made him a masterpiece, himself. He really didn't get it. He never would quite get it.
Tsuna was a symphony of perfection. He was beautiful and he was the only actual living thing Hayato ever came to love. His brown hair in soft spokes, his elegant brown eyes that reflected into his soul, his smile that warmed the air and silenced the agony of the world, his nose that scrunched up when he made that smile, his thin neck, his lithe shoulders, his narrow waist, his slender arms and legs, his gentle hands, his smooth skin – literally everything about him was infallible – his sweet-like-candy voice, his quiet, shallow breaths, his tender embrace, his shy kisses, all those little cute expressions he made. Tsuna became Hayato's new favorite instrument. Hayato gave Tsuna his heart, and Tsuna gave Hayato his. They were so in sync that they knew everything about each other and filled each other's minds with splendorous fantasies and emotions that for Tsuna had never before come out, and for Hayato had stayed untapped for a very long time. Tsuna was art, Tsuna was the purest desire of his soul, Tsuna was his second love. He became his life. Hayato promised himself that he wouldn't slip up again, that he would never leave this love no matter what happened, because this was way too good for him.
Hayato never did leave Tsuna. It was the other way around.
A second gaping hole was left in Hayato's heart when Tsuna died. When he saw that bullet go straight through Tsuna's head, he didn't make a big, dramatic show out of it: he didn't cry, he didn't run to him and hold up his head and scream "Don't die on me, Tenth, please!", he didn't collapse to the ground and swear he was going to kill himself, he didn't react to the killer… he didn't do anything. He just stood there in shock, his mind numb and his body barely standing. Police came zooming through town at the sound of the gunshot, and by the time they arrived the killer and many witnesses had left the scene. They only encountered Hayato Gokudera and his dead lover. The scene was cleaned up and staged immediately. Some of the officers approached Hayato to ask him questions, but he never answered them. They kept him for days at the station, and when he proved to be no use to the investigation anymore, they dropped him off at an insane asylum, where he spent months and months going about the white rooms like a muted zombie. One day, in the lounge room at the asylum, where he was mindlessly seated on the couch with some other patients, not saying a word to them, Hayato got up, walked over to the piano in the corner, sat on the bench before it and played like he had never played before.