Warnings: Second-person POV, all-around unhappiness.
Disclaimer: Amano owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 600 words
Summary: Gokudera has learnt a bitter lesson.
Note: For khrfest; Yamamoto/Gokudera - attraction; "you were like a moth to that flame"
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
You haven't seen the inside of a church since you were eight years old.
You were headed for the bar just down the street, but you caught the scent of frankincense and your feet took you up the steps. Frankincense has forever reminded you of your mother, and you have never wanted her back as much as you do now. Visiting her grave brought you no solace.
It's all just as you remember it. Here is the low table with the many candles lit in hopes for a better tomorrow or a sweeter remembrance of the dead. The sanctuary lamp sways gently in a breeze you cannot feel. Here are the statues of saints whose names you'll never know and the Stations of the Cross.
Commanded by the thunder, the rain outside flogs the circle of stained glass above the door, vicious, as though God hates this place with you in it.
But that's no news to you. Even if God were not the product of an uneducated mob's fear and delusion, He would hate you, for you are an outsider wherever you go, a rootless vagabond destined never to find shelter. Everything about you is alien and wrong, from the colour of your hair to your sexual proclivities. There is no place or time where you belong.
A hawk moth flits close to the guttering paschal candle -- too close. Its wings blacken and shrivel in the flame, and its tiny carcass lands on the dully gleaming hardwood with the softest thud, as though a sharp reminder from God of how you ended up here.
"I don't know what to say."
He said that, and you wished he would have laughed, so you could have had an excuse to hurt him.
But Yamamoto is so kind.
It drew you in, that placid kindness, that willingness to accept you as you are. You were helpless before it, and small wonder: all other people except your mother wanted nothing but to change you. You were a bastard child, a distant brother, a truant student, a reluctant friend, a delinquent youth, a gay man. You were too rash to be the Tenth's right hand, too intelligent to run with the picciotti in Palermo, too slant-eyed to be Italian, too white to be Japanese.
But Yamamoto accepted you, and, being what you are, you fell for him. You knew it was wrong, so you fought it, you didn't let your gaze linger, didn't seek out ways to be alone. You verbally abused him at every turn and did your very best to show you hated him. But his smiles for you never faded.
You were like a moth to that flame, to its frightening, all-encompassing tranquility. Blinded by it, lured by its radiant warmth, you flew far too close. Your adolescent longing grew into a need so fierce it hurts not to be near him. Yesterday, you went to the sushi shop, called him outside, and told him everything.
Now here you stand in this backwater village church in a country that's never been yours, with nothing to offer this God but your shame and your partially digested airplane meal soaking up the rain on the pavement outside.
"I'm not... that is, I mean to say, I just don't think of other men -- of you -- like that, Gokudera. I'm deeply sorry."
His eyes were so kind, and you are so alone.
Just like always.
Come era nel principio e ora e sempre, nei secoli dei secoli. Amen.