A sad smile forms on Fon’s lips as he nods slowly. Of course Kyoya would miss the young Vongola Decimo, he thinks to himself as he ruffles the boy’s head affectionately.
“I have hope in that you will cross paths with him again,” he assures, then thinking about his own relationship before realizing that he might end up punching a wall if he does.
Love is certainly quite the fickle thing if you do not keep a firm grasp on it; here one day and gone the next, never knowing when it’ll ever reappear or if it’ll ever reappear at all. Pursing his lips, he absentmindedly fixes his brother’s hair as his smile fades and his eyelids droop halfway and in place of his smile is a faint frown. Maybe it is best to not let yourself be tangled in the red strings of fate… maybe.
They say that the youth years are the most confusing and hectic, fighting to obtain a name and an identity.
Kyouya almost splutters in response, only barely registering his brother’s words as a coherent thought while he swats the affectionate offending hand away. It is to no avail, however, when the hand simply finds its way back to Kyouya’s head to straighten it again. A faint smile stops the hand, poised to strike.
The boy scowls, glaring at the (only slightly) taller man. But somewhere deep inside, beneath layers or iron and blood, he wars not with his brother, but between two sides of himself. The fighter, snapping and snarling, screeches its desire to push the older man away, to hurt him, to kill him. You left me, you left me, you left me. The child, growth stunted from the age of five, whimpers for contact again, someone who will look at it without terror or malice. I need you, I need you, I need you.
You deserve to die.
You shouldn’t have this curse.
You’re dead to me.
I won’t let you die.
I hate you!!
I miss you…
“…bite… to death.” He mutters under his breath, only three words audible.
