how

The people were still bustling around the boardwalk the first time she saw him, leaning over the side, eyes focused on the canal, his ice cream melting and dripping slowly into the water. At the time, she glanced around before placing her attention away from whatever her camera lens had led her to previously and focusing on him. He blended in with the moving crowd, his blue and red and pink striped plaid shirt tightly stretched at the shoulders and his jeans faded. He had a pair of sunglasses in his back pocket, and what seemed to be some sort of note.

She didn't mean to take a picture of him, didn't mean to be a stalker or a paparazzi, but her thumb pressed down on the snapshot button before she really had much time to reason with herself. And, once it was stored in her camera, she couldn't delete it, just couldn't.

So, this is how a random boy by the boardwalk, of whom she has never ever talked to or even stood within 10 feet of, ended up on her photography wall in her studio. She's content with just leaving him unnamed, pinned up to the wall just like another photograph - but she's not one to make her photos 2-D. She's always had a story behind each photo, a life to the picture, the thousand words for what it's worth.



The people were celebrating spring break at the boardwalk the second time she saw him. She didn't have her camera around her neck this time, and he hadn't been leaning against the side rails, but she could have recognized his plaid shirt anywhere. He had been standing in line for gelato and she had been sitting down at a table with her sketchbook in front of her. He blended in with the line, sunglasses worn over his eyes and his hands placed in the pockets of his shorts. He had the gelato menu in his hand and seemed to be mulling over his choices.

She didn't mean to sketch him as he stood in line, didn't mean to take advantage of his wait time, but by the time he had managed to get his gelato, 10 minutes had passed and a page of her sketchbook had been etched with a lose figure. And, once she had sketched something down, she didn't have the heart to tear it out and throw it away.

This is how the unnamed boy ends up on her wall a second time, but only because she had moved all of her sketches out of the book and onto a progress wall in her studio. For a while, she didn't dwell on the second meeting, but when she decided to go back and title all her sketches, the unknown boy in the picture had stood out amongst everything else she had drawn.



The people are all in their winter clothes the third time she sees him. She almost misses him, bundled up in a large, plaid scarf and a dark peacoat. He catches her eyes for a second as he blows over his hot coffee. She had been glancing at him the whole time.

Their town is not large, not an irony to its name, so she wonders how she doesn't know him as well as she wishes she did. The traffic on the boardwalk has thinned down, so much that the only people left on the dock are a couple of stragglers and the boy drinking coffee and her. He examines the camera in her lap and the pile of paper on the cafe table, and seems to strike an interest. He eyes her carefully, and she the same to him, but neither dares to make the first move. He's only here for the coffee, after all, and she's only here for a quiet place to work.

He stands up and finishes his coffee, and for the shortest of all moments too short, he considers walking over, pulling up the chair in front of her and asking her about her photography and her drawings. He imagines striking a conversation with this girl he doesn't know or may never know, but the opening of the cafe door distracts him just long enough for him to stop.

This is how the unnamed boy in her photo and her sketch remains unnamed. This is how they know they will never know. This is how their story both continues and ends forever.

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.

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.