the sum

(hoorah, here goes!)

There's a lot of things I regret.

I wish I could say that lightly, but that would be making this an understatement. And, trust me for once, it's not.

There's a lot of things I regret.

I wish I could tell them all to you, but each word I whisper seems to crush me down even more under the weight, bear me down above all that guilt, bury me deeper in regret. And, that wouldn't help me. Not one bit.

I want to say it. Trust me, I really do. I want to tell you, want to scream it out to you. I need to say these words.

But, I can't. I just cant. I can't say these words because of all the things I know I can't do. The consequences inevitably following my actions can't be ignored; I can't say these words because I'm too much of a coward - I won't take those consequences.

This conscience nags at me; it wants me to say these words to you. But, I can't. Every other muscle and fiber of my being is fighting itself, in a schizophrenic conflict that is truly everlasting in nature.

So let me pass. Let me get pass you, get pass these words, without having to sneak a little squeak of my regret, without having to whisper it to you, and - God forbid - without having to bellow it out to you.

There's a lot - too much for me to even say - that I regret.

This, all these words and all this nonsense and all these hours spend in insomnia over you and all those moments occupied with the uselessness that is you and me, is regret.

two lines that are never meant to cross are nevertheless connected

A/N: Wow, yes, I'm actually attempting a CHAPTER fic. Well, more like this is part one, because I don't have the energy/ability to continue it any further for I am already much, much forcing it. No, this is not my permanent interpretations of the mysteries of the future arc. xD


inverse fear
part one: effort

Gokudera isn't good with goodbyes, or, rather, he has never given a real goodbye in his life. Which is why when Yamamoto and he are sending Ryohei off, all he can do is present him with a wave of his hand and a grunt of acknowledgment - one that roughly translates to "see you soon, lawn head" in his silent words. He doesn't think much about Ryohei's trip, other than what he needs to, but when Gokudera lays his eyes upon the sight that is simply Yamamoto's best farewell smile and its accompanying chuckle, he can't help but look back on it all, explore the 10th's reasons for it all.

"We'll miss you, for sure." Yamamoto speaks the last phrase with the same sentiment as an artist does on their final stroke of a masterpiece.

And it's as if it's just simply that careless, happy-go-lucky, delusionally naive grin upon Yamamoto's face that teases Gokudera again, forcing his mouth to vocalize some syllables, some sense of a goodbye.

Ryohei begins to turn, leave. The former boxing club president has changed dramatically over the years, while still maintaining the exact same traits. Something so stupid seeming, Gokudera thought, that only someone like Ryohei'd be capable of it.

He plans to keep his mouth shut, to maintain his silence like he has all these years, when - as if the moronic jock knew he was grappling with himself - Yamamoto nudges him from the back, causing Gokudera to jump just the slightest.

"What the hell?" He questions, switching his attention between the departing Ryohei and Yamamoto's grinning expression.

Soundless, Yamamoto doesn't open his mouth either - using just his eyes and his smile to communicate more words than Gokudera can possibly even want to have swarming around in his head. He grumbles under his breath, at how even after all these years, why the hell Yamamoto is still standing beside him, for he still fails to understand the reason.

"Oi, lawn head!" Gokudera shouts out, the distance between Ryohei and him now warranting for Gokudera to raise his voice. "You better be back soon to help the 10th, you got it?"

Only partially turning, Ryohei nods back - recognition of his farewell message.

"It'll be a quick trip to the extreme!" He replies back, in equal volume, if not louder, from all the years of toned practice, and waves his hand, then turns towards his terminal.


"It wasn't that hard, was it?" Yamamoto asks after they leave the airport, giving Gokudera another nudge - and, the hell, is that a wink? - as he does so.

"You couldn't have seen Ryohei off by yourself?" Gokudera snaps, pulling out another cigarette now that they were clear of the - heaven and hell forbid! - 'designated non-smoking area.' "I've got some work to get to and you drag me off to say a freakin' pointless goodbye."

"Just thought you needed the break. You looked like you were about to pull out your hair sitting at that desk with all those boxes." Another smile flashes itself at Gokudera, pulling again at that something he can't yet pinpoint.

"I was not, and I'm not going to." Gokudera blows out a puff of smoke, and sighs as they reach the car. "Aren't you supposed to visit your old man today?"

And, as if instanteously, that smile pops itself back up onto Yamamoto's face, completely in disregard of the inhumanly short time that it was gone, and he swings himself into the car. Gokudera does the same, and only until after Yamamoto inserts the car keys into the ignition and the vroom of the engine starting sounds does the conversation continue.

"I am. Thought you'd like to come with me." Yamamoto says the words - no, sneaks the words out, is more of a fitting description, Gokudera thinks - as if he's just revealed a great big shenanigan.

"Hell no!" What is the response Yamamoto expects from him? Gokudera rolls his eyes as he realizes he is pulled once again by some miracle of centripetal force to spend time with the baseball freak. "I'm not in the mood for sushi, anyways."

"Ha, you're ridiculous, you know, Gokudera?" He puts down the window for Gokudera so the smoke can escape through the window, carried away by the breeze blowing itself into the car. "You're always in the mood for sushi. I've taken you to my dad's too many times to not notice that."

Another smile. His attacks just don't end, Gokudera thinks, do they?

"Well I'm not today. Take me back."

"I'm already driving in his direction; don't waste my gas." Yamamoto jokes as he slides one hand off the steering wheel and relocates his arm unto the open window sill. Even now, he still remains that epitome of relaxed, even when behind it all, the Millefiore are gaining power and the dangers, waves as they are, continously increasing, are raising above the predictions, the banks. "Plus, you'll get the afternoon off. Nobody can make you a better offer than what I've got."

"I could use some time away from you. That's a better offer by far." But, Gokudera knows his only choice is to stay in the car. Yamamoto caught him at the sushi, but that isn't any reason for their strife to end.

This is how we strive, Gokudera thinks, leaning his head back against the seat; this is how we've been - year after year after year - and he just can't understand why they don't want to change.

The chuckle born from Yamamoto's cheery voice - the same one Gokudera has gotten used to over all these years, atoned to all these years, and perhaps, even addicted to all these years - reaffirms the situation, as they pull into Nanimori, the sights too similar to not to invoke memories.

They pass by Nanimori Junior High - still same, nothing has blown it to pieces yet; not that both Gokudera and Yamamoto don't know that if anybody even so much as tries to, Hibari would bite him or her in a split second. They pass by Sasagawa Kyoko's house - now empty due to Ryohei's leave, but it still means just as much to Tsuna either way; neither time nor peril is able to sway the 10th's affection towards Kyoko, and both Gokudera and Yamamoto knows that as well. They pass by the graveyard - absolutely the same, at least in their context; Gokudera and Yamamoto haven't associated with the site yet, and they don't want to - they hope with all they have not too.

And, it's then, as Gokudera's still half absorbed in all that is left of what used to be, the car screeches to a halt. The law of a reaction for every force acting itself upon Gokudera's body throws him forward, his head near centimeters away from the windshield.

"Are you a freakin' idiot?" He scolds at Yamamoto, taking only a split second to recognize the foreign look upon Yamamoto's face. "What's so bad you have to - "

He stops there. Because it takes all the effort he has to keep from painting the same expression onto his face as Yamamoto. The memories flash back at him again, but more violently, more painfully then before; Gokudera's stomach curls in within itself, and he doesn't even want to fathom what Yamamoto is feeling - the same symptoms, but worse, perhaps?

At that exact moment, Gokudera realizes how much he misses Yamamoto's condemnable laugh, his practically sinful smile, and can't help but gaze back upon his frozen, astounded face.

They arrive at the restaurant - the sushi store of his dreams, Gokudera is willing to admit it now that it is all too late - and, yet, he doesn't know what to say. What his memories want to see don't correlate with what he is seeing, and, like Yamamoto, Gokudera is wondering if he's also gone into some sort of withdrawal symptom.

Before them, the store lays in practical pieces, fresh smoke still pillowing out from cracks and creases that are not supposed to be chimneys, fresh smells of blood, of battle, carried in by the same breeze that had previously cooled them down, and fresh ruins - a scene of all that is late and too gone to change.

before (after) the storm

I used to wish people would scatter at my presence, fear my arrival, evacuate right before my eyes at the sight of my dynamites, my explosives, my resolve. I used to loathe those people that always stayed behind, the ones that wouldn't retreat, wouldn't leave, no matter what deluge of force I would rain upon them. I used to scoff at the mention of the 10th Vongola, sneer at his name and his incapabilities.

I used to do a lot of things, be a lot of things - until now. Instead of glowering with excitement at my explosions, my strength, I see everything differently now. This storm brewing inside of me, this fear turned into formidability, I've dedicated it all, devoted it all, to the 10th.

It's still the same math equation solving, reaching, for the same answer. Just, I've changed the numbers; I've changed the process.


Nine years and nine months. That's how long it's been since I last questioned the 10th's decision, his power, his ability. In nine years, too much can change; compared to before, our path has differed, the old evolved into the new - we weren't kids anymore.

Byakuran was closing in now, within weeks, he had taken down everything Tsuna had wanted to stand up for, everything I had wanted Tsuna to uphold.

The boss was humble, modest, strong in every sense of the word. But, Byakuran wasn't - perhaps that was the problem. Byakuran - it hurt for me to say his name - wasn't strong like the 10th, probably couldn't even measure up, but he was more twisted than Mukuro, more skewed in moral than moral could possibly be skewed.

I begged him; I pleaded him. I practically threw myself down to my knees, and then my elbows, and then my head. Contact after contact against the floor, I begged, the thumping of my head against the floor board a worthy sacrifice if I would succeed.

But, the boss was humble, modest, and strong in every sense of the term.

"I can't just sit around and watch him destroy us one by one!" He shouted back, reluctantly at first, but his voice grew as my desperation grew. "This is the only chance, Gokudera. He's giving us a chance."

"Just let me at him, 10th!" I yelled back, still kneeling on the floor. I had realized long ago that my pleads wouldn't effect the 10th; it just never hurt to try. "Let me blow that bastard to pieces!"

"It's my responsibility." He continued, eyes calm. Lately, I wasn't able to catch that glimpse of the old Tsuna, the 'no-good Tsuna' reflected in his expression. "I'm the one that destroyed the rings. I'm the one Byakuran's after."

"That doesn't mean you can't freakin' bring us along! Let Yamamoto and me take care of him, please." My voice cracked at the last words. That was it, my cover had been blown.

"No. You wait here." Tsuna raised himself up from his chair, and strides over to me. He placed his hand on my arm, a gesture for me to get the hell up already. "I'll be back in no time, and then we can - "

"Hell no!" I knocked his grip off my arm, striking him across the chest as I did so. I couldn't even fathom what I was doing - rebelling against the 10th. It was like a complete violation of my sacred scripture, a complete betrayal. "I'm going."

Tsuna stared at me blankly for the next passing seconds; whether looking through me or impaling me with the glare, I had no idea. His head drooped just slightly, not enough for anyone but a guardian to worry about, and then the old smile of his spreaded across his face.

"You worry too much, Gokudera!" He lifted his head, reassurance in the facade he had decided to place up before me. With a pat on my back, he exits the room, uncertainty and frustration obviously effecting his steps, his pace.

There was nothing to do except wait for the impact, the damage to be done. One can't measure the potential threat of any event until it has landed, until foundations had been blown away and expectations torn down.

Like the rational function, I could wait as long as I wanted for the curve to reach the bases of the graph, the x-axis and the y-axis, but no matter how long, I would never know. I would never find out until it was all too late - and infinity was the limit of my delay.

The equation had been set in stone, ascertained for its purpose, but perhaps I had plugged in the wrong numbers to solve for it?


I followed him. Against his orders, I followed him. I had followed his every step until now, so why stop when the 10th was in need?

Sistema C.A.I. wasn't complete yet; the fact of it nagged and nagged and nagged my mind as I trailed Tsuna's footsteps, each perilous advancement lessening the distance between us and Byakuran.


NOT DONE.

Promise?

I want to find a way to promise with myself all the promises I know I won't be able to keep.

three (3)

You just don't get it, do you? You never do. Not even when I ask you for a match countless times, challenge you to a test of our dignities, our morals, our beliefs, on that court, you never understand. You never say the words I want you to say. "I'll agree to a match, Fuji;" are those words really that hard to say?

You're not normal, not normal at all. They call you captain, but what they should be calling you is an alien. You're no different from me, in truth. Maybe that's why I even bothered in the first place; it's because I've finally found someone similar to me, albeit a little different. A measly difference can be neglected in the large scheme of things, right?

You understand what I'm saying, right, Tezuka? You agree with what I'm saying, right?

1.

"What the hell was that?" I shout, grabbing you by the collar, nearly lifting you into the air. "Rematch. Right now."

With my tennis racket at my feet - both my hands were occupied to prove you a point, of course - and the hot sun shining down both our back, that was how our first match ended. A disappointment. A lie. A passing fancy.

"Rematch." I repeated, voice angry, rough, more demanding then before. Back then, I thought if I drilled it into your head enough times, your stubborn guard may have fallen. Boy, how wrong I was.

"F-Fuji-kun," You mumbled over your words, one hand trying to release my grasp on you, the other hand dangling, holding your tennis racket. "This is ridiculous. Let - let me down."

"No." I firmly resolved. My arm was straining now from the weight, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for you. "Not until you agree to a rematch."

You remained silent; whether you were struck dumb by the truth of my words, or the idiocy of my demand, I couldn't tell. All I could tell was the sweat beading down your face, probably my face as well, the reflection of the sun in your glasses, intensifying your glare at me.

"Let me down." You said once again, this time with more certainty. Perhaps you began to understand the situation when I myself hadn't. "You won fair and square, Fuji-kun. I-I don't see what's wrong."

"Stop lying." My grip on your collar tightened, anger coursing through my veins, anger I thought I'd never have to feel at you. "Rematch."

"Calm down, Fuji-kun." Your hand on my fist was shaking, maybe just a little, but shaking nonetheless. I wanted to point it out to you so bad, prove to you that all your pride really was was nothing. Or, at least in that moment.

"Calm down? You let me win. And with a 6-0. What do you think I am?" I retorted, seeing the answer flash past quickly in your eyes, the answer you would never have the guts to say to me.

"Fuji-kun!" You squirmed a bit, trying to get out of my hold.

"A rematch, Tezuka." I growled, dropping you from where you previously hovered in the air. I bent down and picked up my racket, and pointed the tip of it directly at you. I couldn't believe that at last, there was someone whose wall of inhibitions even I couldn't break. Someone I couldn't even get pass.

"There's no need." You helped yourself off the ground, dusting off your shorts as you stood up.

"Every need. Rematch."

I glared into your eyes; I gave you my look that so many would never see, and, yet, with my eyes open, you still refused my offer. You didn't respond to my last statement - at least, not with words. You looked at me, sized me up with one hard look, allowed your cold, wall-like expression to answer my demand, and turned around.

Simple as it was - simple as you were - you strode off, your right hand cupping your left shoulder. Completely, totally, absolutely ignoring me.

2.

You're the type of person that tended, wanted, to keep your secrets, your pains, your stories all to yourself. I could tell. Ever since that match, I could tell. And even now, in our second year, after a year had passed from that incident, you continued to threaten yourself with such a habit.

"If your arm is hurting, Tezuka, you shouldn't be playing!" I said, trying to control my voice from veering itself to a plead. I understood now why you seemed to play with your right hand more often, why you seemed to be so protective after every fall, every minor injury.

"That's not your business, Fuji." You replied with the answer I expected. You may have thought, at the moment, that it was Inui that knew you the best, calculated your every move, but, in truth, it was me. I had observed you all that year, not in the same sense as Inui, but nevertheless observed you.

"It's as much my business as it is your business and the team's business!" I continued to exclaim, to persuade you to finally show me that face behind your guard, behind those eyes that seemed to completely counter mine at every meeting.

"My arm is fine." You squeezed your left shoulder as you did so, your face changing, cringing, for a split of a second no one should have been able to see.

"You're such a liar, Tezuka." I half joked, half stated, knowing you wouldn't take what I said seriously. When would you take anything I said seriously?

"Go back to practice, Fuji. The first years need your guidance." You didn't motion like Ryuuzaki-sensei, or like Oishi, for me to shoo, to leave the room, but I understood all that you meant from your tone. You had used it on me more times than I liked, more times than I should have been able to endure.

"Why are you always like this?" I hissed out of nowhere; today's events had pushed this one thought, constantly sitting on the edge, off the cliff and into actual speech.

You raised your eyebrows immediately, sensing another upcoming attack from me, another round of questioning of your dignity, your morals, your beliefs. I didn't have to see the new light harshly glinting from your glasses to know that you no longer wanted me here. But, still, I'm persistent. Just like you.

"Tezuka, what is it that you always say to the first years?" I smiled, a fake one, the kind I placed on my face when I wanted something answered my way.

"Don't let your guard down." You grunted this line, aware that I would be messing it up, playing it up in some bizarre way. Your line of sight was directed towards the floor, the ceiling, the window - it didn't matter, you seemed to want to look everywhere that wasn't me.

"Well, it's bad advice." I stepped closer to him, anger controlling my actions now instead of my brain - not that it would've made much of a difference to you. "Because, you see-"

"Fuji, cut it out now." Your voice came out hoarse, deep, nervous. Just like when you had tried to pry my grasp off of you that day of our first match. In a way, I was proud that I had established myself in your seemingly empty head that you now knew exactly when my antics were coming up.

I nearly circled you, slowly, stopping only when I was partially behind you. One of my hands were on the shoulder you had been protecting so intently.

"Because, you see, to make sense, one has to let down their guard sooner or later." I tightened my hand on that shoulder, my grin stretching as I heard the barely audible sound of pain you released.

And, just as quickly, I let go of my hold on your left shoulder, and turned around, arriving at the door before you had any chance to react to what I'd accomplished. With a wave of my hand as goodbye, without any words as an apology, or as an explanation, I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it almost in one simultaneous movement.

The smile still on my face, I sighed - whether in exasperation or accomplishment, I wasn't quite sure - at my new revelation; simple gestures did do the trick, right, Tezuka?

3.

He almost fooled me, almost, with that near flawless impression of you. That trickster of Rikkaidai, Niou Masaharu. He tried to be you, he put his all in it to be you, but he failed. And, all for what? Just so he thought he could beat me as you? That I had some weakness over you?

Niou wasn't half wrong, but he wasn't half right either. But, yet, the trickster's act of the day had brought one thing into the light, one lie revealed, for certain.

You had faked that first match of ours. You had forced yourself to lose. For what reason, I can't even fathom, because just like how no one is able to guess me, I can't possibly even guess you. The way that my grip of my racket loosened, the beat of the game crushed, as Niou changed into you, as all I saw before me wasn't my opponent, but you, made me certain that you had lied that day.

You smiled your faint, constrained, disciplined smile at me, racket pointed at me in much the same way I had done two years earlier. And, all I could do then was look down at the ground. Not at you, no. Not at this fake mirage, illusion, that Niou had created. Nothing was the same as the real you.

"You're not Tezuka," I said to my opponent, closing my eyes to make sure. "You try, but you're letting your guard down." My voice was faint, only audible if Niou himself had really wanted to hear it; however, as Niou's serve - or, maybe yours? - came down at me, I knew he had taken in every word of it.

"I'll give you this one match, Fuji." Niou had even your voice down, shocking me as much as the crowd.

I revealed to Niou - or, you? - my smile at its best, the real smile of mine. With my eyes still closed, I felt the ball, felt your resolve, your morals, your beliefs.

Ironic, that the only way I would truly beat you at a match was when you were the one guiding me, the reason for my every move. As one smash came after another, one rebound, one lob, after the other, I couldn't help but grin to myself, to Niou, for being the Tezuka that you yourself didn't have the courage to be.

I would win again this match, I knew that as soon as he had turned into you. But, I didn't want to admit it to myself. I didn't care about the game anymore. The win. The loss. All I cared about was that it was you, across that net. The thrill you gave, that no one else could provide.

"Game! Fuji! 7-5!" The referee's voice ended my reverie, my dream, that game with you I knew I would have to beg at your feet to experience once again.



You understand now, don't you, Tezuka? I shouldn't even have to ask you, buchou.

Maybe you've always known. Maybe you just wanted to figure me out like I had wanted to figure you out, sending us on an endless circle, retracing the same path back and forth. The same path I would've been happy, overjoyed, to be on, with you. Over. And over. And over again.

parallels from the bird

Ichimaru had a bird once. Or, at least to Kira's knowledge, he had a bird once. The vice-captain remembered the countless times he strolled into his captain's office, stack of paperworks completely blocking his vision, while catching a glance of Ichimaru not focused on his own individual (and much larger) stack of work, but instead absolutely captivated by his bird.

It wasn't much of a pet as more of a captive; Ichimaru had always kept the cage open, but he had tied a taught string around one of the bird's hind legs. Even if it had tried to fly, Kira doubted it would've gotten any further than the very edge of its metal prison.

The bird had the most beautiful voice, the most beautiful appearance. Or, at least in Kira's memory, it had such traits.

He only vaguely remembered its mesh of feathers, some green, some blue, some white. Ichimaru had never allowed him to pet the bird, but from the way his captain was constantly distracted by it, Kira figured it must've had an insane degree of softness. Its melody it had chirped was calming, but not droning. Lively, but not shrill. The bird's voice had been perfect, even to the point where Kira had found an asleep Ichimaru Gin as he came into the office, his curved grin only slightly relaxed in his slumber.

That was the fact that irritated Kira the most - for what reason, he didn't quite know himself. While he himself could never even stand up to Gin, never able to look him in the eye without skipping a breath, never managing to stop stuttering in his presence, the bird had no inhibitions against his captain. He figured perhaps the bird was too lowly, too much of a perfect slave, to be afraid of Ichimaru, but, he found himself in slight jealousy of the bird. Again and again.

Yet, one thing Kira knew for sure was that he never wanted to be that bird, that animal in the open cage, trapped with the irony of not being able to escape. Entrapment was one reason, for sure. But, even stronger, even more horrifying, was the smirk his captain had given the bird every time his attention was on it. It wasn't Ichimaru Gin's normal smile, as infamous as that was; the bird had received a smile much worse, one of uncertainty, of doom, of all the acts Ichimaru was capable of that Kira didn't know, didn't even want to know.

Kira never wanted to come face to face with that same, horrible grin.

In fact, even for awhile, Kira was completley content with the bird occupying all of Ichimaru's attention, however work-adding such a distraction was for him. Because, the satisfcation, the relief, of knowing that for once, his captain's gaze - his deathly glare - was not upon him, was worth more than anything else Kira could've asked for.

But, one day, as if out of the blue, the bird disappears. Gone from Ichimaru's office. Gone from this world, as far as his captain had informed him. The table where the cage sat previously had already been replaced with another mountain of paperwork, almost seeming to erase the memory of there ever being a bird in 3rd Division.

"W-what happened to the bird, Ichimaru-taichou?" Kira inquired, eyes scanning the room for any trace of the previous 'pet' in the room.

"It got borin'." Ichimaru replied simply. His chin was resting on his uprighted hand, nearly setting a pose completely matching his previous words.

Raising his eyebrows in doubt and confusion, Kira wasn't quite sure if he should've kept on talking or not. Hadn't Ichimaru loved that bird with the same affection of a completely toy-obsessed kindergartener?

"Boring?" The vice-captain parroted. He was almost completely certain Ichimaru was able to feel the quivering fear resonating from his voice.

"Didn' ya' think so too', Izuru?" He paused for a moment, twirling on the desk with his free hand a piece of paper that was probably more important than Ichimaru regarded it to be. "All it did was stay 'n the cage all day. No fun at all."

Kira didn't bother mentioning that the bird was stuck in the cage all day because Ichimaru had willed it to do so. Instead, he focused on the finer points of what his captain had said. If, there had been finer bits.

"Are you planning to finish some paperwork, then?" Kira's voice was somewhat meek. Even after months and months of being 3rd Division vice captain, he still couldn't find the courage to speak with a firm voice in front of his captain.

"Na'," Gin chimed, voice lightheartedly dull. "Tha'd be no fun, either."

Throwing back his head, Ichimaru let out a big, playfully bored sigh. His hands were behind his head, and he seemed to be leaning back in the chair with a bit too relaxed way. Something told Kira that his captain was plotting once again; whatever unfortunate results would become of this, he had the strangest instinct that he himself would be effected.

"Are you planning to buy a new bird, taichou?"

"Hmm," Ichimaru instantaneously pulled his head back, so that his face was now meeting Kira's, who was halfway across the room. The grin across his face was eerily foreboding, eerily familiar to Kira as it embedded itself into his captain's expression. An 'aha!' look, the bad kind - Kira's own experience so far had taught him that much-, was practically screaming, dying to let itself, the idea of its purpose, to be revealed.

"Nope." The smirk remained as Gin continued.

"Then, w-what?" Kira couldn't help but be taken back by the smile of his face. That smile, he had seen it somewhere before. He had been frightened by it, somewhere before.

"'ve found somethin' much better."

Ichimaru then took the liberty of plopping himself up with one sly movement, gliding himself over to Kira, and ruffling his vice captain's hair before leaving the room, all the while with the smirk still upon his smug countenance.

Kira was frozen in spot, body completely rigid. He didn't know how to react, how to breath, even, as his captain ambled out. His fists were clenched together now, the hands ice cold, without his own notice. He couldn't get the image of that smirk out of his head, couldn't get the fear associated with it out of his head.

Where have I seen it before?

The realization hit him, hard and fast and unexpected and frightening. The same smile. The same smirk. The same grin. The same curve of Ichimaru's lips.

The same role as the bird. The same doom.

crumbs from the sky

So, I'm strolling down the park, taking in the usual - the mundanely green trees, the repeated squawking of birds, the same old lady on that same old bench-, when a boy drops from the sky, out of nowhere. He glances at his surroundings, then me, then the surroundings again, and back and forth until his eyes focus on the pigeons not too far from him.

"Birdies." He whispers to himself, barely audible above the roar of the wind.

"Um, do ya' maybe wanna' git up?" I drawl to him, speech slow and reluctant. It's not everyday you see someone fall out of the sky, let alone someone who does so, and then seems to only care about a couple of pigeons.

"Birdies!" He repeats loudly, as if saying those words again fueled some sort of inner energy. The boy takes my advice, and helps himself up, raising to a height even taller than me.

"They dun' pay any attention t'ya 'less ya bring 'em bread." I say, motioning to the prime example of the old lady who brought a bag of bread each day just to catch the attention of said birds.

My eyes remain glued to the boy, memorizing the pattern of the checkered t-shirt he wore, the slightly gelled blond hair, the faded jeans, and the scratched up sneakers. Not a single scratch messed up the perfect complexion of his face, of his body. Even with such dirty clothes, the boy was perfectly clean.

"Bread?" He questions, as if he never heard the word before. This newfound word seem to draw his attention away from the 'birdies' - or, at least temporarily.

"Y-yeah," I stutter, realizing I had never needed to define the word bread in my life. "It's tha' white thing tha' lady o'there is holdin'."

Pointing directly to the bag of bread, I continue to keep my attention on the boy. However, it didn't take less than a split second for the boy to immediately disappear from my sight, and then appear just as quickly right in front of the old lady. His sudden intrusion to the usual scene flustered the birds, sending them cooing this way and that in anger and fear.

"Bread for birdies." The boy states to the woman, his hand out to gesture his want for the bread. His fingers were sleek. Long. Perfect.

The woman gives him the same look I do, but perhaps more shocked and more judgemental. She stares at him for a long while, her grasp on her bag of bread tighter than before.

"Excuse me, young man?" She raises an eyebrow dubiously. I could tell her scanning the flawless appearance of the boy.

"Bread for birdies!" He responds, voice even louder, with more demand this time.

"I beg your pardon." The old woman says, no longer paying attention to the birds who found there to be a great lacking of bread crumbs.

"Bread!" The boy nearly shouts as he spontaneously attacks the woman, grabbing the bag crudely from her hands, tearing it as he did so. His speed is inhuman; by the time I blink in even more surprise, the bread is already in pieces, dispersed on the floor by the boy himself.

I approach him, even more careful and reluctant. Perhaps he had fallen from the sky for one reason: he isn't human.

My eyes and the eyes of the woman - who had probably suffered a minor heart attack herself - are pasted on to his figure, his actions. We watch as a triumphant smile crawls up his impeccable cheeks, the sun reflecting off his dazzling face.

"I got the birdies' attention." He states blatantly; a myriad of pigeons surrounds him, as if the bread crumbs he had given were a blessing from the gods.

No.

Why so serious, guys?