His eyes widen perceptibly when Tsuna drags his sleeve over his eyes in messy, shuddering swipes, and that's enough of an answer. He doesn't begrudge him of much, nonetheless. Yamamoto's gaze absently slants up so Tsuna won't catch him staring for too long at the pinprick of tears misting at his eyes — he never really seemed to genuinely like the attention, even before, when everyone looked to him as a leader to easily trail in the wake of.
It's a kind of dissipation in untempered physicality, shying and indistinct, because Tsuna would sooner vibrate out of his skin than hurt another living being. Fighting with hands braced around contrite psalms, even, because he was never as confrontational as much as he was pacifistic. There's nothing abstract about the way Yamamoto carefully folds him into a tight hug, though — partially because of the injuries Tsuna's sustained, partially because he might just need it too, blinking down at the looming fragility in his friend's complexion.
Quick and painless.
Yamamoto retracts after a while, his palms finding both of Tsuna's shoulders and holding him steady, an echo of earnest warmth. He smiles in tired relief, straightening after a moment, mouth puzzled between a slivered grin and something entirely indiscernible when he speaks. ]
'Course, Tsuna. Anything you want! Just say the word.
[ It's a little like baring his soul: Yamamoto says too much but won't say enough, and it's never quite what he means, even in complete exposure. Tsuna's changed, somehow, growing brittle with the beginning of a nascent, waxing desperation. Evidently, he can't voice that much, either. Hands pulled away from the clasp, Yamamoto pivots Tsuna on his heel in one decided movement, leading him back toward the main encampment. ]
You look exhausted. Have you been here for a while?
[ it was all . . . pretty okay at first, after he arrived from selena. he was a skittish bundle of a mess, the thoughts were endlessly worrying, some deaths happened on the ship and a couple of reindeer murder cats got loose as well as a cinnamon bug outbreak, but everything turned out okay in the end. they even had movie nights! but nothing would ever prepare him for mission macha, even if he knew what was to come. perhaps he had a gist, thought he knew— but never would he have guessed the feelings and events that would pull down at him. ]
We've been on Macha for . . . A few days? Maybe a week?
[ honestly, he hasn't been keeping track. ]
We just— Haven't stopped.
[ just fighting, walking, fighting— he catches a short glimpse, the dim glow of yamamoto's cuff: orange. ]
You too-? Not on Macha, I mean— [ he tries to gesture, rather sloppily, mostly because he recalls their visit on the space colony selena, knows he's seen yamamoto there— and once on the nehada, anxious to hear of yamamoto's whereabouts . . . he was told of a transfer, to another ship.
but, one could never be too sure. not everyone remembers, he's learned. ]
[ LISTEN ... It's not like Yamamoto keeps his schedule down to the punctilious restraint of fixed timestamps and weekly logs, it's lucky he's even peripherally aware of what day it is (not the weekend, or he wouldn't have been called out afterschool on the day he was drafted, but maybe he's just splitting hairline semantics and his own immediate indifference to anything that isn't fun or baseball, respectively speaking). In any case, it's not like Tsuna isn't up to snuff with handling things when it comes down to the eleventh hour — he's the leader for a reason — but he's momentarily caught by that answer, mouth opening on pop-fly spontaneity. ]
Haven't stopped?
[ A weird way to phrase it, but then they've reached the camp by this point, and Yamamoto's steps visibly slog as he sits down the mangled remains of his camp tent without any further precursor, like it doesn't even matter that he should've gotten it set up long before he went traipsing around to alleviate his concerns on the slimmest of provocations.
He goes quiet at the question, staring at him for a while. A slight tilt of his head, eyes bright and summarily unsettled at once, some confused movement pried halfway between caution and blithe silence.
From what he can recall, he hadn't encountered Tsuna even once until now, but Hibari had been out on the rooftop that night, and he — ] Ahaha, well, I don't think I understand. What do you mean?
[ he shuts his mouth— one, because of the stings under the bandages, the wounds that stretched and brought discomfort to his moving mouth. at least with painkillers, it's lightened, but—
when he speaks next, he tries to keep his mouth as closed as possible, careful not to open too much. ]
I'm just . . . Tired! I'm thinking too much.
[ he manages a smile— although, it's clearly being forced for the sake of conversation. he didn't feel like smiling. he didn't feel in place to smile, which is why it dissipates almost as quick as it comes. a change of direction, perhaps. maybe home would make him feel better. much better— ]
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no subject
His eyes widen perceptibly when Tsuna drags his sleeve over his eyes in messy, shuddering swipes, and that's enough of an answer. He doesn't begrudge him of much, nonetheless. Yamamoto's gaze absently slants up so Tsuna won't catch him staring for too long at the pinprick of tears misting at his eyes — he never really seemed to genuinely like the attention, even before, when everyone looked to him as a leader to easily trail in the wake of.
It's a kind of dissipation in untempered physicality, shying and indistinct, because Tsuna would sooner vibrate out of his skin than hurt another living being. Fighting with hands braced around contrite psalms, even, because he was never as confrontational as much as he was pacifistic. There's nothing abstract about the way Yamamoto carefully folds him into a tight hug, though — partially because of the injuries Tsuna's sustained, partially because he might just need it too, blinking down at the looming fragility in his friend's complexion.
Quick and painless.
Yamamoto retracts after a while, his palms finding both of Tsuna's shoulders and holding him steady, an echo of earnest warmth. He smiles in tired relief, straightening after a moment, mouth puzzled between a slivered grin and something entirely indiscernible when he speaks. ]
'Course, Tsuna. Anything you want! Just say the word.
[ It's a little like baring his soul: Yamamoto says too much but won't say enough, and it's never quite what he means, even in complete exposure. Tsuna's changed, somehow, growing brittle with the beginning of a nascent, waxing desperation. Evidently, he can't voice that much, either. Hands pulled away from the clasp, Yamamoto pivots Tsuna on his heel in one decided movement, leading him back toward the main encampment. ]
You look exhausted. Have you been here for a while?
no subject
[ it was all . . . pretty okay at first, after he arrived from selena. he was a skittish bundle of a mess, the thoughts were endlessly worrying, some deaths happened on the ship and a couple of reindeer murder cats got loose as well as a cinnamon bug outbreak, but everything turned out okay in the end. they even had movie nights! but nothing would ever prepare him for mission macha, even if he knew what was to come. perhaps he had a gist, thought he knew— but never would he have guessed the feelings and events that would pull down at him. ]
We've been on Macha for . . . A few days? Maybe a week?
[ honestly, he hasn't been keeping track. ]
We just— Haven't stopped.
[ just fighting, walking, fighting— he catches a short glimpse, the dim glow of yamamoto's cuff: orange. ]
You too-? Not on Macha, I mean— [ he tries to gesture, rather sloppily, mostly because he recalls their visit on the space colony selena, knows he's seen yamamoto there— and once on the nehada, anxious to hear of yamamoto's whereabouts . . . he was told of a transfer, to another ship.
but, one could never be too sure. not everyone remembers, he's learned. ]
no subject
Haven't stopped?
[ A weird way to phrase it, but then they've reached the camp by this point, and Yamamoto's steps visibly slog as he sits down the mangled remains of his camp tent without any further precursor, like it doesn't even matter that he should've gotten it set up long before he went traipsing around to alleviate his concerns on the slimmest of provocations.
He goes quiet at the question, staring at him for a while. A slight tilt of his head, eyes bright and summarily unsettled at once, some confused movement pried halfway between caution and blithe silence.
From what he can recall, he hadn't encountered Tsuna even once until now, but Hibari had been out on the rooftop that night, and he — ] Ahaha, well, I don't think I understand. What do you mean?
no subject
S— sorry, I— Never mind.
[ he shuts his mouth— one, because of the stings under the bandages, the wounds that stretched and brought discomfort to his moving mouth. at least with painkillers, it's lightened, but—
when he speaks next, he tries to keep his mouth as closed as possible, careful not to open too much. ]
I'm just . . . Tired! I'm thinking too much.
[ he manages a smile— although, it's clearly being forced for the sake of conversation. he didn't feel like smiling. he didn't feel in place to smile, which is why it dissipates almost as quick as it comes. a change of direction, perhaps. maybe home would make him feel better. much better— ]
What was the last thing you remember from home?