gigantomachy: (yamamoto)
gigantomachy ([personal profile] gigantomachy) wrote on August 9th, 2009 at 11:17 pm
[khr] the end complete
notes: A simmering idea, possibly shattered by recent revelations. Desperate love for breaking the beautiful and innocent. A night with Coheed & Cambria. A volatile mix, really.

Huge, huge thanks to [livejournal.com profile] queen_qing for the proofreading. ♥





the end complete
(poor little hound of blood and rank)


Five-thirteen pm, Japan Standard Time. It's a beautiful evening, and Takeshi Yamamoto sits beneath the shade of a sentinel Konara oak, dappled by what little sunlight filters through the serrated edges of the leaves above.

His clothes and hair are still damp from an hour of batting practice, but there is hardly a tremble as one arm stretches languidly across the back of the park bench, as he settles into a posture of barely-feigned ease, tipping his head back to watch the canopy rustle overhead.

So much to think on, but nothing stays still within Takeshi's head -- it's like tracing the spiderweb cracks of gunshot glass, lines and tracers and convergences circling a profoundly still (blank-empty-gone) center. An analogy to shy away from, perhaps, but Takeshi Yamamoto is (has been) older than he looks.

Thoughts circling, skirling, coming again to the weight of Cavallone's hands closing over his own, the cool gravity of dark eyes searching his own, the shape of a mouth bent differently three times, each instance offering only stilted breath and crushing silence.

Weight. Takeshi easily resists the urge to slip a hand along his side, instead curling his palm loosely over his belly.

A melodic whistle then; faint but growing, and there is no smile to cross Takeshi's lips. Legs cross, fingers twitch, the leaves rustle overhead in an unhurried whisper. His scalp itches where the sweat has dried there. A glint of light reflected from convex glass and there is a boy with almost lazy steps slouching down the paved pathway. Takeshi takes in all these things from the corner of his eye, then lets his head drop forward.

As if startled by the sudden motion, the whistling stops, and Shouichi Irie stands uncertain in the sunlight just beyond the old oak's reach.

When Takeshi's smile does come, it's slow but no less sincere for the delay; five fingers of an outstretched hand flutter in a rhythmic wave like spectators at a ball game, and unabashed relief sweeps Irie's features -- no thugs, no prefects, only Yamamoto, the gentle baseball giant who in ignorance wears his humility like a badge of honor.

It is the proper Japanese thing to do, to sit and speak with this not-friend-but-presence at Namimori Junior High, and so Shouichi puts aside a half-dozen unfinished bass riffs and formulae to take a seat, smiling, missing the contraction of pupils at the way Shouichi's smile brightens in the absence of all the things he doesn't

(will never)

know.

And it goes well, as conversations can between two people who might or might not be mostly strangers, a low-key back and forth on whatever comes to mind, moving from the mundane talk of clubs and classwork to a stunning impromptu elegy for Hideto Matsumoto of the electric guitar to a ten-minute rant on why Sadaharu Oh is the best thing to have ever come from Nippon Professional Baseball. For all the awkward pauses, the moments where either voice suddenly falters like it's unsure of its place in this conversation or this quiet park, it is not an unpleasant meeting.

Overhead, the leaves whisper. To the west, the sun is slipping beyond the jagged horizon of Namimori proper, the school bell tolling six like a dirge. It's enough to make Takeshi flinch, and Shouichi tips his head, blinking as if coming out of a reverie.

"It's late," Takeshi chuckles and passes a hand over his eyes, Cavallone's solemn gaze surging to the front of his mind once more. He's on his feet before he knows it, slinging his schoolbag over one shoulder. "But hey, it was good, to talk for a while, huh?"

He hears but doesn't register Shouichi's answer as he moves towards the path, passing behind the shaded bench, and Shouichi is bending forward to tighten his shoelaces and to Takeshi it's like there's all the time in the world to contemplate opportunity and destiny because time is crawling.

All the time in the world, really, to reach beneath his open jacket

(weight)

and it's his father he's thinking of, the father that will inevitably die in this boy's future at the hands of a rival mafia thug as he sights in on the space where soft brown hair curls at the base of Shouichi Irie's neck, his hand lifting just a fraction and to Takeshi's ears the shot is louder than the crack of rawhide against a rock-maple bat despite the awkward silencer, the recoil almost enough to drive the pistol from his grasp.

He hopes it is quick. He hopes it is painless.

Shouichi's body slumps forward, and the blood spattering his knees and uncurled palms seems too dark in the shade.

One deep breath, and then another, and Takeshi knows that the time to set aside games forever has come. He slides the pistol back inside his Eagles jacket and adjusts the strap of his bag, then moves toward the path with something resembling purpose.

Tomorrow he will face Tsuna, who he knows will not understand this for years to come, if ever. Tonight, as an assassin of the Vongola family, he will face Dino Cavallone, whose sudden, uncharacteristic silence he can only now comprehend. Tonight he will answer silence with a weighted silence of his own, and leave to Dino the unpleasant details of procedures he's sure will someday be his, as well.

He'll be quick, of course; his father will surely be waiting.

Together, they will make chazuke.

-fin
09August 2009

Another one of those things that was far more potent in my head. :| First real endeavor into the KHR fic arena; hopefully, it's only the beginning.
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