f-umo:
◆ * The moment he lifted his head, he knew it wasn’t real. He felt fuzzy, and the idea of a dream did cross his mind, but in the end it didn’t matter– he had been tossed around too much by this island to believe the powerful sense memories assailing him were anything but that. The faint fishy smell of living above an active sushi shop, the familiar groove of the wood table he’d spent countless days at, it took no time at all to know where he was(n’t).
He was home. Not his little apartment he struggled to pay rent for every month, not Tsuna’s room where so many Vongola-vital memories had been made, but the place that had made him feel more at home than anywhere before, ever, even though it actually belonged to Yamamoto. And Yamamoto was across from him, the look on his face saying he was still the same Yamamoto from the island too.
“There’s no way it’s real,” he tried to say it softly, but shattering hopes always sucked. “But.. man, I miss this place.” A small smile tugged at his features in spite of himself– it was hard to avoid the comforts of home no matter the situation.
@itsmoistyams
Wincing, flat irritation scruffed his cheek and smelled like familiar yellowing straw. A groan emerged with the grogginess of daze and confusion. His muddy eyes fluttered open as he pushed himself up off the floor onto his elbows, digging his nails in like he could float off the ground at any moment. Craning and cracking his neck it bent backward at the warm light glow—and without hesitation he recognized knot in the wood, smiling at that dark eye as his friend had fallen asleep. That old box ceiling fixture, dusty and stained from the time his udon went flying. Tripping backward over that worn-out low-end table that he laughed the hardest at with Gokudera.
That damn table went flying across the room with the force Yamamoto stumbled to his feet. His eyes darted as dread was now piloting. He could make out a blur through his brimming eyes that looked like the silver hair he’d come to know. He was underwater, he couldn’t breathe, Gokudera’s voice was gargling. Yamamoto backed up and ended up knocking the old CRT, jumping as it hit the mat. He took frightened steps, turning his head back and forth between Gokudera and the door but he was already sprinting down the stairs in twos.
“D—AD!”
His voice croaked.
“DAD? DAD?” Chairs untouched hung off the tabletops, the front door shut, silence. Not a single customer to see this crying boy bawl and scream for his daddy. “DAD!” He hollered once more, pleading, rocking and pulling his hair out. He couldn’t tell anymore, was it the future? Was it the past? Was it some alternate universe of hell he’d been forced into by another cruel trick. Yamamoto had been tough, he smiled when he needed to, he was strong for everyone—but the one person in the world he loved more than anyone, he couldn’t protect. Everyone had brushed the future off but it was a scar that liked open itself up when Yamamoto was alone. He worried. He sobbed. He loathed.
A hand landed on his shoulder with a loving moist grip.
“Takeshi?! Takeshi what’s the matter; I’m in the freezer and I hear you screaming bloody hell…” The gruff, old and tired voice rattled him to his core as the hand turned him. He couldn’t say that one word. “Takeshi… Jeez, look at your face it’s sopping wet. I haven’t seen ya cry this much since you broke your damn arm.” Cold hands on his flushed face wiped the tears away, ran through his hair, and rested on his shoulders once more. “You kids were just playing your game and now you come running down here like the house is on fire—”
Yamamoto clung to his father, his face rubbing into his fishy shirt leaving more wet stains as he wept like a baby. His father just sighed, petting the boy’s head and rubbing his back in small circles feeling his shoulder blade jerk with each hiccup. “If you too are fighting, you need to talk it out. You can’t always run to Daddy… that said I’ll kick his narrow ass if you ask.”
