time is telling secrets.

stargrind @ 2008-11-12T22:31:00

2008-11-13T06:39:20Z

☣dead man's alley.
PG | STRESS | 3750

Hibird is singing, singing a tune that is solemn and ignored. Hibari is too caught up in in the gentle caress of the spring air, the familiar scent of flowers blossoming and grass growing. The temperature is cool, comforting. Winter has just ended.

Millefiore is already gone.

And it's back to where they all left off.

The flutter of tiny wings causes him to open his eyes, and when he does, he notices a single petal from a nearby cherry blossom tree has settled itself in the middle of his tea. He simply stares at it, unaffected, and then he rises up to slide open the door that leads outside, to a courtyard that's very much alive. And he pours the tea on the ground, lone petal included.

There are a few moments of uninterrupted silence, but Kusakabe's customary "Kyou-san?" brings him back inside.

Laughter (distinct and full of misinterpretations); the only thing he hears despite the chorus of giggles, of rumors floating about, of when do you want to meet's and how about never's. It's the only thing that repeats itself in his head like a broken record. An inescapable, unwanted, presence loitering around the hallways, the rooftops, and the fences. Without a way to put it out of its misery, Hibari has no place to hide from it, has nowhere to run.

It comes and goes, like a dream he's likely to discard, but this one isn't something he can let go of so easily. Even Namimori is tainted, veiled by a thick blanket of pink and white, full to the brim with spring life. The cherry blossoms bloom and wither away like snow, every petal as sweet and bitter as the smile he's smiling—

( You really are weak to them, aren't you?

A delicate wind, accompanied by the scent of something much like death. Of dangers and mistakes that come with a high price. It's something that will lead to something more, somewhere along the line.

To sakura.

The last thing he remembers is laughter, distinct and bittersweet laughter, and petals fluttering after the wake of his own blood. )

—but his eyes are telling a different story.

"Kyouya." It's soft, unintrusive, but it's every bit as distracting as the laughter inside his head. The Cavallone boss is looking at him, not with concern, but with mild regard, a curious interest to know what it is that just made him smile.

Within an instant, his face is a mask of obscurity, a blank slate. He doesn't answer back.

"You looked like you wanted to kill me," Dino says, with an easy chuckle mixing about with his words.

"I do," is the automatic answer, and it's clear it isn't just Dino he's addressing.

There's another smile, but it's from Dino's own lips this time. "Always so direct." A gentle laugh; fond, affectionate, because he's daring enough, born to be a daredevil with a deathwish all the time. "Is it about—"

Hibari never lets him finish that. "Tell me how to fight against something you can't even believe in."

Dino blinks once, twice for good measure. Three times to make sure this is actually happening. It isn't everyday Kyouya willingly asks for something like this, after all. But he doesn't voice his bewilderment out loud; you weren't supposed to. You take it in stride and roll along as if nothing has happened, "Lies, you mean?," and Dino's voice doesn't miss a beat.

"The mist."

It's just as well that Dino knows better than to laugh at this, a grade of sunshine waiting to be snuffed out, but he can't help the quick curve of lips that comes instead. He can never resist it. "Then first you have to learn what it's like to believe in something that really exists."

His legs felt weak, wobbly, like jelly. The whole world was a dizzying sight, ready to keel over whenever he did. He had never been in a more dangerous position than right at this moment. It made him grimace a little, just a tad, the pathetic sight he was sure he was projecting. If he could speak, if he had someone to talk to, disdain would drip from every single word, because weakness was something he didn't tolerate. But there was no one around, no one in sight.

It was just him and the blossoms he kind of (sort of) used to love, and surely, definitely, appreciated - acknowledged.

It wasn't hate (not yet); it was more like the same kind of feeling you get when you realize there was gum on the sole of your shoes, the same kind of annoyance. He could live with it, of course, because he didn't have any reason not to, but even Hibari couldn't see what didn't want to be seen.

Hibari didn't realize there was someone watching.

Everything didn't start out with once upon a time. It went like this—

What a frightening man.

—and curiousity followed soon after. But it wasn't quite like the kind that led Alice down the proverbial rabbit hole, or the kind that always killed the cat. It was a little bit more puzzled, disconnected, a fairytale that wasn't about Prince Charmings and Cinderellas. It wasn't the kind you would want to tell sleepy children right before they go to bed, because they just might end up staying wide awake and not dreaming, perpetually afraid of what hid behind closed eyes.

Rokudo Mukuro would be the first one to laugh at all of this.

Because it wasn't as complicated as that.

It was boredom, plain and simple, a mere whim that didn't have the flightless fancies attached to it. A spark, a pinhole of distraction; not enough to change his motives, but enough to keep him occupied.

His smile was satisfied, that much was clear, while his own personal snicker was concealed by shut lips. He kept a watchful eye over Hibari months after they met, purely out of curiousity, out of boredom. This man might be capable of killing him, after all; it was a sick kind of fascination. Twisted, warped—anticipation at its worst, because you know you've hit rock bottom when the only other thing that thrilled you was the very idea of your own demise.

But Mukuro would still be the first to laugh.

Laugh, because it had a sense of schadenfreude written all over it.

Hibari is already in a bad mood, made worse by the unexpected visit of an unwanted guest, with an equally unwanted gift in tow. He doesn't miss the chance to bring out his tonfas and attempt to land a blow on Mukuro's face, all in the midst of, "What is this," a statement, not a question.

The tonfa narrowly misses Mukuro, swiping through empty air and leaving him with a smile. He laughs, because it's necessary, because he knows fully well how much that grates on Hibari's nerves. His right eye burns with the flames of number four, but he has no intention of using it. "I didn't want to come empty-handed."

"It's an eyesore," Hibari snaps, adopting another offensive position.

"You haven't even allowed yourself the luxury of opening it."

Hibari's expression is full of distate, stretched by austere fury. He wants to wipe that smile off Mukuro's face. "There isn't any need for that. I know what it is."

But Mukuro keeps on smiling. "Oh?"

Hibari doesn't wait any longer. He takes one step forward, and the rest follow in rapid succession: two steps more, turn, strike, turn around, and strike again. Every hit has more than double the force attached to it, determined to bite the Italian to death, right here, right now.

Mukuro is unfazed, infuriatingly enough, laughing like all of this is mere child's play. "One would think you don't appreciate my gift at all." Said gift is still held by one hand (an ordinary-looking wooden box), while the other manipulates his trident around to block every beat made by cold metal.

"Keep it," Hibari says, delivering another attack that's just as easily blocked as the rest. He doesn't need to see what's inside the box to know what it contains, doesn't need Mukuro to add insult on top of injury with the way he wants to pass off plucked cherry blossom branches as a present. Can't help but think about how disrespectful this whole stunt is. And he doesn't need Mukuro to tell him they aren't illusions, not when he's well aware of the fact that they come from the cherry blossom trees that surround his own courtyard.

( "Do you remember that?"

"I'd rather not."

"I remember it clearly." )

There was a flash, of spiked metal against something that slithered, hissed. He almost lost his balance, but he was able to regain it. Laughter filtered through the blank darkness, the chained streets. He was breaking out into a cold sweat, chills down his spines and goosebumps up his arms. But the scowl on his face deepened, sharp and crisp. Show yourself, he snarled, only to be met with more hisses and rattles.

No one else was around, but he could almost see the set of mismatched eyes and the Buddha's smile.

There was a flash, of everything bleeding into black—

But Hibari wakes with a start, immediately feeling the cramp of his arm from being used as the makeshift pillow for his head. He doesn't dare to move, doesn't dare to break the momentary stillness that came over him; he simply stares up at the sky. The sky so blue, free of white ghosts, so wide and so close that it almost feeks like it could overwhelm him entirely, alive and breathing.

It's almost suffocating.

But that won't stop him from reaching out, just to see how far he could fly.

( Hibari effectively bristled, at this point. "What are you laughing at?" )

Mukuro hasn't seen the sky in a long while.

Ten years and counting.

"Oh, I'm—" Sorry, Chrome wants to say, but the look in Hibari's eyes tells her that his patience is next to non-existent. No room for idle talk and casual errors; no rest for the wicked. She composes herself and hugs the bag in her hands closer, staring up at Hibari with an expression that doesn't have fear. There's nothing to be afraid of, after all. The Cloud Man won't hurt her.

She's sure of it.

Hibari regards her with frigid consideration, less curious, more cautious, if anything. He doesn't move to strike her, but he's ready to pull out his tonfas at any given moment if he deems it necessary. It's routine by now though, Chrome's random visits, and perhaps that's the reason behind his lack of a more appropriate reaction. "What is it this time?"

"Mukuro-sama wants to—" A pause, she always pauses, to make her heart catch up to the beat of her own tone, precise and demure. Thu-thump, thu-thump, there's a sudden shift; if I may, my dear Chrome?, and her eyes close, head nodding once. Yes, of course, always. "—speak with you . . ."

A dissonance of two voices, high and deep; an expected cacophany. And then it fades, bleeds into one, just as the pleating of a skirt flickers into something that's entirely leather, black, and white.

Mukuro smiles; it comes to him easily. "If you have the time, of course. I wouldn't want to impose my whims on you."

"Skip the pleasantries," Hibari replies flat-out, deadpanned, but lightly intrigued. What is it this time, really.

The laughter is immediate. "If that's what you wish." Mukuro keeps it hanging there, gloved fingers stretching out to draw spirals and circles on the fogged window. It's raining outside. And without waiting for Hibari to say anything else, he continues, speaking in a bemused manner, as if mesmerized by the light drizzle. "Have you ever wondered why feathers still fall out of the sky on a rainy day much like this one?"

There aren't any in sight; just the dying petals of pink and white.

Mukuro never stops smiling. "One would think they would take cover if the rain was heavy enough. And yet, they still keep on flying." He turns to face Hibari this time, and everything unspoken becomes obvious during the split-second moment his eyes glint with something soft, almost nonexistent. "And the feathers keep on falling."

A frivolity, Hibari wants to say, but Mukuro isn't looking at him anymore.

"Somehow, that just reminds me a bit of home."

Rusted chains, deep water; abandon everything and cling to nothing. It's the kind of home where no light ever reaches it, where no sky ever touches the surface. There isn't any room for the privilege to fly even when you shouldn't, even when you know the rain won't weigh you down, because your bones are hollow and there's nothing left of you on the inside. It's unfortunate, perhaps, maddening, most assuredly, but for once, Hibari knows he truly has the upper hand here; a battle won without even doing anything.

But he'll ever be satisfied with that.

( His laughter always stood for a lot of things.

It was harder to find which one he really meant.

"Everything," he said, "I'm laughing at everything." )

Hibari remembers being told, once, that the only way to win against something that isn't there is to believe it's actually real. Believe in it and everything falls into place, like building blocks on the way up. The sight of metal slowly heating up isn't alarming, but the sight of Genkishi's smug face, as he explains how illusions can be real enough to melt steel, brings a smile to Hibari's lips.

"I know that," he says, suddenly reminded of that one encounter he had years ago.

He's well aware of it.

There are spots of colours all around them; pinks and violets, yellows and oranges, whites and reds. They smell every bit as sweet as they always do, or they supposedly do—Mukuro can't tell. He reaches out for a morning glory, smiles because he knows exactly what it stood for (life is too short), and snatches it. His fingers attempt to caress its petals through the leather of his gloves, but he can't feel the delicate texture.

Hibari is more than a few feet away from him, arms crossed, quietly observing. His head is tilted up a little so that he can watch Mukuro with an air of unruffled superiority. "We're wasting time," he points out, a hint of ire and intolerance in his voice. When Mukuro doesn't move an inch, he has half a mind to go over there, grab the other man's collar, and drag him to where they are headed.

Only to be interrupted by laughter, children's laughter, and not the one he has grown accustomed to over the years.

Mukuro glances over his shoulder with an artful smile, half-lidded eyes conveying everything he wants to say.

"Be quiet," is the only way Hibari replies to it.

So Mukuro laughs. "That's hardly threatening nowadays, Hibari Kyouya."

Hibari glares at him, obviously rattled. He moves to swallow up the distance between the two of them, but he's stopped short by Mukuro's raised hand. A moment, please, that's what it's saying, and he gives him that moment, a short second. Soon after that, it's free game, tonfas sliding out with practiced timing. He promptly sends a powerful blow to Mukuro's chest, doubles it up with another hit directed at Mukuro's face, filled with the intent to draw out blood.

Mukuro catches them gracefully, takes them without a word or reaction other than an unflinching, "Oya?" Just like before; it's always been like this. "Are you not fond of flowers?" he interjects, perhaps with a trace of something much darker than nostalgia, smiling through his split lip, affected and knowing.

"They hold little relevance," Hibari sneers, stinging and alarming. He presses a tonfa against Mukuro's neck, eyes narrowing with a smirk. "I'm more interested in biting you to death right here."

But Mukuro diverts the looming threat away from him by using his trident, smiling so sickeningly sweet that it even causes Hibari to pause. "You ought not to speak of such violent tendencies." His smile falters, innocently enough, but everything else about him is an embodiment of something that slithers on the ground. "The children nearby might hear you."

And as if on cue, little kids rush past them, all giggles and chit-chats, without a single care in the world. Hibari looks at them like he did with everyone else; crowding like herbivores is still a punishable offense, no matter what age group you are. His grip around his tonfas tighten, just a little.

"I certainly hope it isn't presumptuous of me to have taken a few, but quite necessary, precautions without your approval." Mukuro's smile widens. "I am rather aware of your dislike for crowds." His brow is subtly arched, in such a manner that lets Hibari realize his intentions have been found out. And when he notices that Hibari stiffens, he laughs once more. Delighted and entertained.

"My business is done here, however." Mukuro gestures for them to leave. "Shall we?"

And Hibari just breezes past him.

( "He isn't there, is he." It wasn't a question. It had never been one.

Chrome was struggling to keep her eyes open. There was still blood on her lips. "No . . . I'm—"

Sorry, she wanted to say, and Hibari knew this. He stopped her before she could get the word out. "We'll all be in trouble if you die here," he remarked, a distant echo of what he said while Sawada Tsunayoshi and the rest were still around.

"I . . ."

"Why do you think he gave the Mist Ring to you?"

By then, Chrome knew Hibari already had the answer, so she closed her eyes and murmured one name—

". . . Mukuro-sama."

—and Hibari stayed with her even after Kusakabe left to tell the others that she would be okay. )

"Maman?" A little girl calls out, peeking out from the side of a tall pilaster. She looks lost for a moment, almost mistaking one of the statues to be her mother, but she spots the elderly-looking woman a few seconds later. Her little feet leads her stumbling past strangers and colourful murals, reaching out with chubby fingers for her mother's wrist.

"Maman," she says again, "Where is Jesus?" Her voice is loud to be heard enough by a good portion of the cathedral, but luckily no one cares enough to reprimand her.

"Right here," her mother replies, picking her up right away.

"Where?" She asks again, curious as ever. "Is he here?" And her voice slowly fades into a quieter level as she's hushed by her own mother.

Hibari spares the two of them a fleeting glance, but he's no longer interested in what either one had to say. It had been a good way to pass the time, however, listening in on whispered prayers and hushed conversations. But now he's bored of it, finally deeming them trivial, unworthy of further curiousity. This isn't within his range of interests, after all, so he filters them out. And he's right back to where he started, right back to a whole lot of nothing. But he continues to sit still at his chosen spot, a forgotten corner, where sunlight fireflying through the glass-dome ceiling spills all around him. For the lack of better things to do.

A little while longer, and there's a familiar presence behind him.

"Were you waiting long?" Mukuro questions, apologetic in his tone, but it isn't reflected anywhere else.

Hibari doesn't shift to look at him straight in the eye. "What is this about?" Sharp, direct; his patience is running thin.

And Mukuro laughs, gently, quietly. "Right down to business, I see. Very well then." A pause. "In light of the recent events, what do you propose we should do, Hibari Kyouya?"

Hibari rises up, brushing past Mukuro's frame, but he stops a few steps away. "You already know what to do." He focuses his sharp gaze on the other man, a look that could easily kill if it were possible to do so.

"Perhaps I'm in dire need of a reminder." A dash of mischief every now and then never hurt anyone. "Indulge me a little."

Hibari acquiesces, speaking over the sound of his own footsteps. "Contact the right hand man. Keep everyone else in the dark."

( Without a moment to lose, his trump card was already out: a hangman fit for the king of hell. The number in his bloodred eye remained a constant six, even as he raised his box to match that of a ring with outstretched wings. He was smiling all the while, completely relaxed, cool and collected.

"This is the moment when I will possess you," he said, and everything faded into sea of red.

And on the flipside—

The smoke cleared up, and the first thing he saw did nothing to improve his mood. He was already in a bad one to begin with. His tonfas were out, set in a position that spelled trouble for everyone standing before him, but he was smiling as well. The thrill, the rush of pure adrenaline—that was what he was looking forward to.

Not this.

This wasn't even worth his time.

"I'll bite you all to death," he said. "Like cornered rats."

He didn't miss a thing. )

There are kids playing outside the quirky little café they are now situated in. Mukuro is already on his second cup of coffee, while Hibari has barely touched his. He doesn't like it.

Kagome, Kagome—

"Ah." Mukuro's languid features lights up in recognition, causing him to set his cup down, almost discarding it in favor of small talk. "I know of this game."

The bird in the cage.

Hibari has his eyes closed, faintly listening.

Mukuro tosses an impertinent glance down Hibari's direction, lips curving upwards instinctively. It's interesting, when things are like this. "Answer me this, Hibari Kyouya."

—when will you come out?

"When are you going to kill me?"

A shriek comes from the group of kids playing, accompanied by raucous explosion of footsteps and snickers; it seems whoever was 'it' that time around found a new demon.

Hibari's eyes are open in an instant, and the smile on his face is deadly. "As soon as you stop running away."

title. Dead Man's Alley.
genre. General.
rating. PG.
characters. Hibari Kyouya, Rokudo Mukuro, with a side-helping of Dino Cavallone and Dokuro Chrome; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Makes little to no sense. References to the manga and anime everywhere. Cop-out violence (can't write action scenes /WRIST). SUBTEXT??
wordcount. 3750.
notes. Disjointed; irregular. Not in chronological order. Someone needs to take my artistic license and void it. It might not make any sense. Many thanks to queen_qing for putting up with my consistent whining about this fic, sob. For annotate.
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. Regularity's discarded; it all bleeds in one direction.

stargrind @ 2008-10-21T22:26:00

2008-10-22T05:27:55Z

☣white it out.
PG | GIFT | 767

Tsuna doesn't dream in black and white, in color, or in a way that makes sense.

When he dreams, he dreams in letters, phrases, and sentences, all stringed together by punctuation marks and heartbeats. He doesn't really get it versus does it really matter. You dream something, you wake up, and that's it. You move on, because you can't really keep yourself rooted; that's just the way life is, how it goes. He doesn't really mind, because he's used to it, used to it like the way he ties his shoelaces in the morning, half-eaten toast in his mouth (I'm sorry, maman, I have no time, I'm late, I'm late -) that he never finishes.

But he turns his head and looks up, notices that his ceiling is already blurry, blackened out. The pillow is soft, like Kyoko's touch, and this makes him smile long enough to be noticed by a baby that just kicks him in the face and says, "Now's not the time, No Good Tsuna."

So he closes his eyes, slowly sleeping.

There's going to be a bruise on his nose in the morning.

He doesn't wake up, but he's awake enough. Eyes open, looking around, noticing that it's just him against the world, and there's no one around to help.

It's suffocating, this kind of pressure, the weight of everything else on his shoulders. Thin and frail, like they're about to break, but there's something about the way he stands still and just takes it all in. He's meant for this, after all, spent almost the entire decade convincing himself this is how it should be, how it's meant to be -

But he turns his head and looks up, notices that the sky overhead is just about to swallow him whole. He doesn't mind this, not at all, not when there are smiling faces, the people he wants to protect. Their laughter is light, like Kyoko's eyes, and this makes him hold on as tight as he could, to something he never wants to let go.

Something he can never give up.

There's an explosion of colors in the night sky, and this makes him think: this is why it's worth it.

Sometimes it's hard to tell where it stops, the fine line of I'm awake and I'm not.

But sometimes it's even harder to tell where it begins.

Tsuna can feel the cold surface of his bed, the way a misguided spring digs into his back whenever he tries to move, but his eyes feel heavy, like sand sits restlessly on top. Someone's snoring right beside him, the soft rising and falling of z's grating on the thread connecting him to deep sleep. It might be Lambo, he thinks, because Lambo always had the habit of invading his bed whenever the night isn't too friendly and Tsuna is the closest thing to home.

(He remembers being told, once, that Lambo has always feared sleeping alone, and he remembers laughing at this, because he's afraid of that too.)

But he turns his head and looks up, notices that everything suddenly goes black. It feels like someone's shaking him, calling him, wake up, wake up, open your eyes, and please don't -

Tsuna dreams, and he doesn't dream in black and white.

When he closes his eyes, he sees one color, shades of red, vivid and real. He could almost taste the copper tang, feel the sticky moisture of something too warm and so wrong at the same time. It isn't his blood, he thinks, at least he's pretty sure it's not his, because he doesn't feel the pain, the slight hint, the mild pang, that maybe it's his blood he's bleeding. Fingers go to his chest, but there's nothing, not even the heartbeat of his lungs.

Everything tightens, and it's like he can't reach out for the sky so blue, so alive, and -

There's a hand around his, and it's soft, like Kyoko's touch, it's light, like Kyoko's eyes, and it squeezes his fingers tight, a reassurance, a promise.

Tenth.

He hears it, a whisper near his face.

Tenth, please.

But he turns his head and looks up, notices that he can't really see anything anymore, not the blurry ceiling, not the blue sky - just everything going black, fading out and never in. He laughs, and it's weird how it sounds so broken to his ears, it's weird how it's slowly getting harder to breathe. At least he knows, he gets it now.

"It's okay."

Tenth! Open your eyes! Please -

But he doesn't.

It'll be okay.

title. White it Out.
genre. General.
rating. PG.
characters. Sawada Tsunayoshi, Gokudera Hayato (cameo); Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Death.
wordcount. 767.
notes. I was trying out a new style, to get out of a writing slump of mine. Tell me if this makes sense? 'cause I don't really know, haha. Also written with tsunayoshi in mind. ♥♥♥
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. Tsuna doesn't dream in black and white, in color, or in a way that makes sense.

stargrind @ 2008-10-10T15:14:00

2008-10-10T22:14:53Z

☣like so—
PG13 | GIFT | 1080

He finds him, lying there, bleeding all over the cement like he's meant to, barely moving, barely breathing, and he has to stop and wonder about just what the fuck happened here. What could have been so severe that Hibari Kyoya, the Cloud Guardian of the Vongola family, the strongest out of them all, was reduced to a more-than-roughed-up mess of blood, cuts, and bruises? A question without an answer, but he's pretty sure he can do the math himself; just add Byakuran (he almost shivers, and fuck, fuck, this isn't how it's supposed to be) to the mix and it all makes a lot more sense.

As close as it can get to making sense, anyway.

Because to see Hibari in this state—it's almost unheard of, impossible, a thing of the past that only happened once and never again, until now that is, and there's a split-second where he wonders just how pissed off Hibari is right now. But then again, that might have been what he'll feel like if this had happened thirteen years ago; then again, things are different, they're different, so maybe, just maybe, Hibari isn't all that angry. Isn't all that ready to tear off Byakuran's face as payback.

But then again, then again, who is he kidding?

Gokudera has to restrain himself from laughing, and he doesn't know, doesn't really get why he feels like laughing—he just does, and that's more than enough reason nowadays—but it's like it's the right thing to do, because if you don't laugh, then you'd be crying (haha, didn't you say something like this before?), and he's never been one for crying either. Besides, the dead don't really cry like that anymore, and even if they did, they'd only shed in one color.

And it'd be the exact same one that's getting smudged all over his already dirtied suit as he bends down and pulls Hibari up, securing his arm around his shoulders, making sure he isn't about to slide off anytime soon when he moves. It's a slow drag, this pace he decides to settle with, and even he's having trouble going a bit faster, because the other's a complete deadweight in his hands, and it's like, what happened. What the fuck happened to you?

But he never asks that out loud.

(Because he knows, he knows—)

"You're fucking heavy," he says, grumbling under his breath, as if it's going to really matter, but if he doesn't talk, he'll drive himself crazy with thinking back, because silence makes you think about stuff you don't really want to be bothered with anymore. Memories, the past, all that cliched bullshit you see in movies, read about in books, whatever—it's the past, the past, and it doesn't really belong here anymore, but he can't help it. Not when he's this close, this fucking close, to a stupid ghost.

He cracks a smile, and it's a smile with no light in it, no sky. It's dead, just like he's supposed to be, and he's saying things, saying stuff about how he's repaid the favor now, so they're even, completely even. But—and this is where he pauses, where he actually takes a second to glance at Hibari, and he looks sad, looks lost, looks just a little bit annoyed when he asks, "I wonder if you actually get it this time."

And like before, he gets no answer.

It's just silence, and their feet dragging all across the concrete.

He's fine with this though; he's just fine with it, because he has nothing else to say, nothing else to really talk about since this is Hibari, and Hibari's never really been the type to listen to pointless babble. That's a herbivore's way of socializing, he might say, or maybe something along the lines of how he dislikes pathetic mingling like that. Herbivore this, mingling that, but he knows Hibari's always had his own way of grouping, even though it only surfaces when it really counts.

But that's as far as his thoughts go, because Hibari suddenly feels a lot heavier, and he takes this as a sign to slow down even more. A snail's pace, and it's like he's barely even walking, just shuffling his feet around, one step forward, another step ahead, but it feels like they aren't really going anywhere. Not like he's in any hurry—he doesn't really have a reason to move any faster than this—so he talks, he starts talking again. "When you wake up," and it almost sounds like there's a certain kind of weight to this, a different kind of emphasis, a hidden message underneath the reckless words, "you owe me another favor."

It's what they've always been about.

He does one thing, and Hibari does another, but somehow in the end, they end up being in each other's debts, and it all goes downhill and uphill from there. A routine they just sort of fall right into, like it's all they've always known, but that's how it goes.

But Gokudera says something like this, "I'll make it easier for you and tell you what I want," and it's like the makeshift order they built together is suddenly in shambles, a complete ruin. It goes against the rules (what rules?), and he knows this, but there's a whole part of him that doesn't really care. Doesn't really have enough of himself left to give a shit.

And he has to pause, he has to pause long enough to understand why the man he's carrying isn't really talking back. He has to pause long enough to laugh, to laugh so openly and brokenly at the same time, and during this, he finally lets Hibari go. Drops him carelessly on the ground (it's close enough to Namimori, at least, he thinks it's close, but fuck it, at least he'll be safer here—), and there's even a scowl on his face as he says, "Now you know what I felt like all those fucking times you just dropped me like that, you asshole." But there's next to no humor in it. Next to no malice.

He turns around and starts walking away, all the while he makes his last request. "Kill me when you see me next."

And it's funny how he just knows Hibari will find a way to repay this favor he now owes.

Funny how that's just the way it is.

Funny how that's how they've always been.

title. Like So—
genre. General.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Hibari Kyouya; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth. 13YL AU.
wordcount. 1080.
notes. Written for annotate' birthday, a while back. This was supposed to be a four-part thing, but - I couldn't find the inspiration to write the other parts. Not right now, anyway, so you get the second part, haha. Hopefully I'll have the other parts written up someday. o/
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. He cracks a smile, and it's a smile with no light in it, no sky. It's dead, just like he's supposed to be, and he's saying things, saying stuff about how he's repaid the favor now, so they're even, completely even. But—and this is where he pauses, where he actually takes a second to glance at Hibari, and he looks sad, looks lost, looks just a little bit annoyed when he asks, "I wonder if you actually get it this time."

And like before, he gets no answer.

It's just silence, and their feet dragging all across the concrete.

stargrind @ 2008-09-01T11:22:00

2008-09-01T18:22:32Z

☣(un)finished.
PG13 | ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS | 5872

The truth is a funny thing. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it doesn't, and sometimes it just confuses the fuck out of you until you run out of options. But it takes its toll, just like everything else, sinks its claws deep inside of you—it'll never let you go. When Gokudera found out that the lady whose name he never learned was actually his mother, he did the only thing a child of his age could do: run away from it. But it hung around like a perpetual black cloud, dampening his outlook on life and everyone else that wasn't him.

Of course, things are different now, and he has the Tenth, and maybe that bastard of a baseball freak too, and that stupid woman, and—and everyone else, much to his dismay, to thank for it (not that he'd ever admit this to anyone other than the Tenth). But when he learns about things like Shamal may have had a part in the death of your mother, then what is he supposed to do? There's always that option of ignoring it, just like he did sixteen years ago, and he even considered this one too, but to revert back to to having that black cloud around him isn't something he really wants anymore.

Not after everything.

So now there's option two.

And this involves hunting down the very bastard that just messed up the story he lived with for the rest of his life.

Up until now, anyway.

He learns from Dino that Shamal is currently situated in Milan, one the largest cities in this godforsaken country, where fashion is everyone's lifeline, the heartbeat that keeps them in motion, breathing, alive. It seems bizarre to him that Shamal would pick such a place to live in, when Venice would have made more sense (where the one-night-stand kind of romance is always an option) and would have catered to his needs better, but it's not a thought he cares a lot about to spend too much time thinking about. Not when he has other things in mind, other things that need answers.

It takes him a while to track Shamal down—whoever said it was easy to look for a trail of broken hearts was out of their mind—but he finds him after the thirteenth bar. The bastard's completely wasted, as far as Gokudera can tell, because he's trying to put the moves on a classic lady in red, only to get slapped because she already has a lady in black to keep her in company. Gokudera sees that split-second confusion flash across Shamal's face, and then there's that moment of delight as he attempts to sling his arms around both of the women's shoulders, to bring them closer to him, saying something akin to three's never a crowd, right, kittens?

Gokudera decides this is the best time to move.

He weaves his way through the bar's crowd, settling himself behind Shamal, because both sides are already preoccupied by the two women who are desperately trying to shove him off. Shamal's laughing, but it dies down when he gradually takes notice of Gokudera's presence behind him, tilting his head backwards to dazzle him with a smile, only to have it collapse once he realizes who it is.

"We need to talk." Straight to the point, as always.

"I'm a little busy~" The sing-song tone in Shamal's voice is suave enough to make it sound like he's serious about this. "Can't it wait?"

"No. Hurry up. Or else I'll make a scene and ruin your reputation for life."

It's a threat that has a sharp and don't-fuck-with-me edge to it, a threat that makes Shamal take one look at him again, before sighing and letting the two ladies go with a sigh. He pulls himself to his feet, flashes one last smile, and bids them good night, narrowly avoiding their incoming assault via their purses.

Both men head for the exit, and Shamal has to ask, "Well? What's so important that you have to drag me away like this?"

Gokudera ignores that. "Where's your place?"

"Hmm? Hayato, you know I don't swing that way—"

And this is where Gokudera loses his temper a little, "I'm fucking serious, old man!"

Another sigh, another look at him, and then Shamal finally says, "Got a ride?"

"Yeah."

"Then don't lose sight of me."

Milan is a gorgeous thing to watch at night, even if it's a not-quite-panoramic view made possible by riding his Brutale on the city streets. Shamal is right ahead of him, and he lags a little behind, just to take in the view, to take in the new sights. Lights spread around the buildings like fireflies, and even if all he sees are quick snapshots, he still appreciates the detailed architecture. The people on the sidewalk barely catch his eye, save for the special one or two cases, where they could be wearing a shirt he'd been eying on the store windows or they were a girl he fleetingly thinks of as pretty.

So when the car in front of him pulls to a stop, his instincts kick in and he's pulling on the brakes as hard as he can, creating the proverbial you almost fucked up screeching of tires. He swears loudly within the helmet, "Shit!", and then he angrily pulls it off his head, glaring daggers at Shamal's bumper (it's a dangerous inch closer to scratching his Brutale's frame), as if he isn't the one at fault here.

Shamal steps out of the car while Gokudera's too busy glaring at something that'll never fight back, but he gets that feeling of someone's watching him. He tilts his head up and catches that look on the other man's face, that familiar half-smile, half-sigh that tells him Shamal knows he messed up. It's not like he even has the chance to save face, because Shamal's already inside the apartment before he could say anything. Curling his lips into a snarl, he abandons his motorcyle and heads inside as well.

"Close the door, will you?" is what he hears first.

And he doesn't know why, but that just sets something off inside him.

Everything he learned back at Boccadasse at the old lady's living room comes rushing back in waves, and then he just—

He punches him. Square in the face. Crazy look in his eyes, fist tightly clenched, teeth gritted, heart beating like drums, and there's a part where his breath gets caught up in his throat. It's only when Shamal staggers back a little and shoots him an incredulous, what the fuck do you think you're doing?!, kind of look that he stays locked in whatever it is that came over him.

Maybe it's rage.

Maybe it's anger.

Maybe it's everything in between.

Or maybe it's everything at once.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were with her?!"

Shamal wipes off the small trace of blood on his lips, keeping his eyes trained on Gokudera's form with an expression no one would be able to read. His fingers run through his hair again, a habit he always does whenever he doesn't feel like talking, Gokudera mentally notes, and shrugs. "You shouldn't really pry."

Gokudera isn't satisfied with this answer. As a matter of fact, it makes him bristle up even more. "Fuck you! Give me a fucking reason."

There's another sigh; it's more exasperated this time. "Anger is so ugly on a man's face," comments Shamal, languidly turning his back on Gokudera, right hand in a pocket. "It's even worse when it's on yours."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Shamal shifts his angle so Gokudera could see his profile break into a slight grin. A grin that's neither happy nor sad, but it's a grin nonetheless. One that knows, one that doesn't want to share. "I don't have to tell you."

By then, Gokudera can't take it anymore.

His body snaps forward and crashes into Shamal's, pinning him against the nearest wall. Hands curl into fists around the man's collar, and he's baring his teeth, eyes narrowed into furious near-slits. Their faces are close, way too close, but Gokudera wants Shamal to hear this, because he isn't sure he can raise his voice anymore. "I'll give you three seconds, asshole," he growls, every syllable dripping with acidic threats. "Give me a reason or I'll fucking kill you."

"Have fun with that."

So three, two, one—

But nothing happens.

Gokudera's grip on Shamal's collar is slowly slackening, that mad rush finally leaving him just as quickly as it took over. Little by little, one finger after another, until he completely lets go, but he doesn't move away from the other man. Not yet. Not while he still has something to say, something he doesn't want to say out loud, but just murmur it, like a lost thing, a lost thought.

"Did you kill her?"

"Hayato," and it's Shamal who pushes him away. "You're asking stupid questions. Why don't you use your head a little?"

"Yes or no?"

"I'm not in the mood for this, brat." Maybe he's getting angry too. "Figure it out yourself."

It's the last thing Gokudera hears from Shamal before he gets shoved outside the apartment, door slamming shut in his face. He almost laughs at the déjà vu.

It really isn't funny.

The next time Shamal opens the door is when the sun is conveniently way up in the sky. Gokudera hasn't moved an inch from the small corner of the front steps he claimed last night, dead cigarettes littered all around him. He's even smoking the nth one that day. They're pretty much the ones that kept him up all night, because you can only entertain yourself for so long with counting how many leaves are on Shamal's bushes before you get bored enough that you'd just want to ram your head against the wall over and over again. It's a pointless thought, so Gokudera moves on.

"You know you could have gotten yourself killed out here, you crazy brat," is his wake-up call, the thing that snaps him out of his half-aware state. He cranes his neck to look up at Shamal, greeting him back with the customary fuck you. Shamal rolls his eyes and steps aside, "Come in," being the only thing he tells him.

It takes Gokudera's brain a few minutes to register that, but once it clicks, he gets up. His movements are a bit sluggish due to the small haze of sleep that threatens to make him keel over on the floor, so he shakes his head in an attempt to fight it off. Not that it really does him any good, because he doesn't even realize that he's being led to sit down on the couch until he could already feel the leather support his weight. He blinks.

"Did you even sleep?"

"No."

"You know you won't get yourself a lady friend when you look like you shoved yourself in a barrel and went joyriding in it."

"Shut up." And then this, as an added afterthought, "That wasn't even funny."

"Damn," Shamal laments, but it sounds a bit too playfully for Gokudera to take it seriously, "I figured you were gone enough to not notice."

"Fuck you," because it's his answer to everything, "Just admit you're shitty when it comes to this."

They fall into an awkward pause, where tension starts to unravel things they have to talk about, things Gokudera wants to say, wants to ask, but can't bring himself to. He doesn't have a reason for it; just that there's something stopping him. Not that he knows what it is, even now when he thinks about it. Or maybe he does know, but he just doesn't want to admit it.

Not yet.

Thankfully, it's Shamal who speaks first.

"So what happened, Hayato? I'm all ears."

And Gokudera spills everything in one go.

He tells him about how he killed the Spizaeto Don, the man he hates, the man he can live without, the man he still calls his father—it was a single bullet to the back of the head, shot through and through. Never saw it coming; never had a chance. He tells him about how his two informants sold him to the Gambino family, how they were after his head now, because they wanted him dead, rotting, and out of their sight. And then there was Bianchi's warning, which pushed him to call the Tenth just to let him know he wasn't coming back (yet, he reminds himself, not yet) because he had to run, had to hide. And now, it was about Genoa, the attack on the rooftop, the part where Dino came in and told him about Boccadasse, where he met the old lady, the old lady who told him things he never even heard about.

Things that led him here, talking about all the events in connect-the-dot format, because he didn't know what else he could do.

It doesn't even occur to him that he's been reacting to everything on auto-pilot, without thinking, because when did Gokudera ever think? Certainly not when it mattered, like right here, right now. Shamal looks like he must have realized this, not that Gokudera makes the connection, because he's too preoccupied with glaring at the carpeted floor, too pissed off at himself, too proud to even say that he realizes he maybe kind of needs some help.

But before he can ask, Shamal beats him to it: "What happens next?"

"—what?"

"What are you going to do next?" There's some weight to certain words, going instead of planning, do instead of think. And that's when it all clicks, one after the other. There's a pattern to everything he did (kill, run, kill again, run again, fight, run, find information, chase, learn more—), and Shamal must have seen through all this already, and that thought makes Gokudera hate himself even more. It was right there in front of him, right there, but it took him this long to find it—fuck—because he never thought about it until now. You would think after all these years he would have learned to just stop and think, to pause everything and rewind, just so he can take it all in again in slow motion, where he wouldn't miss a beat and swerve off the whole picture entirely.

But he's like an old dog that can never learn new tricks.

Too slow, too stupid.

Too blind to everything he does.

And all he can say at this point is one angry, "Shit!"

Shamal watches him from the side, sees the way his brows furrow together as he glowers some more, and maybe there's a flash of sympathy in his eyes for a split-second, a flash Gokudera never sees. "Think it over," he says, before leaving his spot on the couch to head for the kitchen.

Gokudera does, tries to, but he doesn't get all that far. The only realization he ends up with is the one where he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do. What happens next, where will he go—he never thinks that far. He did everything he did, because it felt like the right thing to do, not because he actually thought things through. And maybe that's his problem here, his fatal flaw, the Achilles' heel to all his genius. He's realizing this now, right now, when he's buried in too deep with consequences that will maybe, most likely, kill him someday—shit.

Shit.

He doesn't look up when he blurts out, "What do I do?", with his teeth gritted together, seething with self-hatred, because of how stupid this is, how lost he is, and how hard it is to even ask for the help he really needs now. "What should I do?" Because I'm too blind to see what's right in front of me, so just give me that tiny bit of guidance. A small hint to what I should really be looking for.

But all he hears from Shamal is, "You have everything you need, Hayato. Use your head."

It's not the answer he's looking for, but it's the answer he expected. Shamal never made things easy for him, even when he needed it the most, even when he had to step on his pride repeatedly to seek out his help, because—and this is how Gokudera convinces himself he's better off without the old man—he's a useless asshole. Fuck you.

"Alright, whatever! I don't need your help anyway," is an outright lie, so who is he kidding, "but—at least—" he considers begging, but decides against it in the end "—just tell me what happened that day?"

From the corner of his eyes, he can see that Shamal's still in the kitchen, rummaging through the own cupboards, for something, maybe more alcohol knowing him. It's probably the only thing he keeps in there—the only reason why he'd bother using the storage space. Once Shamal pulls out a bottle of gin, thus proving Gokudera's point, he tosses a look over at his direction. "I suppose I do owe you that much, since you're already here and all."

Gokudera doesn't even bother to reply.

There was a flutter of laughter that came from one of the rooms, a laughter so sweet, so light, and so disarming that it was enough to tell him who it belonged to. A smooth grin broke his usually pokerfaced expression, delicious thoughts (he was allowed to call them delicious, right?) skirting across his mind like scandalous pieces of gossip. He knew who he came here for, knew what he wanted to do, so he marched right on, everything on his person (suit, tie, and a bouquet jasmines) undoubtedly presented in their best appearance and manner—even he was counting on himself to remain in his best behaviour.

It didn't take him long to reach the room he was after, and upon reaching it, he stood by the door frame and casually leaned against it. The resounding sound of a throat clearing playfully echoed in the small room, its occupants' chitters and chatters immediately ceasing as all their eyes fell on him, which made his grin shift into a satisfied smirk. He raised one hand, half-heartedly waved, and tipped his head in a small nod—his small signs of acknowledgement.

"A good day to all of you, kittens," he greeted, the smirk never leaving his face. "Is it alright if I steal my little angel," and there was a wink sent down the direction of the only one with iridescent silver hair, "for a short while? I promise I won't take too long."

The room bubbled with a chorus of giggles, and some of the girls even whispered words he couldn't hear to the one he called angel, which made him smile even more. Women like them were always a curious thing to watch when they were a flock, a flock of pretty birds waiting to be caged in by the right choice of words, but that wasn't his main intention. Not today, no. For today, all he wanted was the lady that just took his offered hand, the lady he led away from the room and into a part of the hallway where no one would be able to overhear anything that was said.

She was wearing that gentle smile, the smile he fell in love with at first sight (not that he would ever admit it), and it brightened up her face, brightened up the area, when he gave her the flowers he handpicked (and lovingly took care of, but this was another secret to keep) himself.

"What did I do to deserve these beautiful flowers, Mister Shamal?" Always so polite and demure; it wasn't usually his style, but there was something about her that stood out, reeled him in without so much of a struggle.

"By being you," he answered truthfully, reaching in to brush a stray lock of hair away from her eyes.

But he never touched her.

She laughed like she always did, gently and tenderly, moving a step back, away from Shamal's reach. The smile on her face seemed a bit sheepish, apologetic almost, but it shifted into her usual kind one as soon as she fixed her hair herself. It made Shamal reel his hand back in, curled into a fist, head tilting downwards with an understanding (disappointed as well, perhaps?) grin.

"Do you like them?"

"I love them."

"I'm glad to hear it."

A pause in their conversation, but it was because she took the time to appreciate the jasmines' fragrance. Shamal was watching her in silence, and when she looked up with a grateful smile, he could only smile back.

"And now that I have your flowers, will you be leaving me?"

It was the kind of question that would make any amateur charmer panic a little on the inside, because something like that usually meant their lady love was no longer interested and wanted you out of their sight. But this was Shamal, the one whose current number of successes laid somewhere in the one-thousand range, so he picked up what she was trying to say with no problem whatsoever.

Maybe the message had been made as a friendly gesture, and Shamal knew this, realized this, but his answer was still as honest as ever: "Today is one of those days when I can see you without having to share you. How could I leave your presence so soon, angel?"

She was laughing again (he could listen to that all day long), more amused if any, but she didn't say a word.

So Shamal had to ask, "What? Was it something I said?"

"No. Of course not." She shook her head. "I just thought it was simply endearing of you to say that."

He looked confused for the moment. "Endearing?"

Not that she offered to make this any easier (that fiend, Shamal mentally thought with an impressed grin), because all she told him was this: "I'll let you unravel that yourself, Mister Shamal. Especially since you're so fond of puzzles and things, yes?"

"—hold on a second! Were you flirting with her?"

"Ah, there it is. Was I?"

"I asked you a question!"

But Shamal isn't about to grace that with a straight answer. "Hayato, if you haven't noticed, your mother was a woman. Now unless she had been the ugliest fuck in the world, which she wasn't, there was no way I wouldn't have laid my eyes on her."

"Why you—!!"

"Do you want to question my taste in women, or do you want to hear the rest of it?"

"... Fuck you."

He was just standing there in the middle of the hallway, a half-smile on his face. "Leaving so soon?" It had the same tone, the same message she had given him earlier; can't you find an excuse to stay?

But she only smiled at him. "Five days ago was a special day for the Don's son. I was unable to be there due to certain circumstances, so I'm making up for that today." There was a neatly wrapped present in her hands, while the bouquet lay discarded on a centerpiece vase on the dining table. "I haven't seen Hayato for months now—I really miss him."

"Of course you do." And maybe there was more to what he was saying than what anyone could pick up on the surface. He knew what was going to happen once she left, but all of his attempts to stall for more time were futile. So a thwarted grin graced his features as he said, "Foiled by a dumb brat."

She turned to face him, and showed him a sympathetic smile. "Don't say that," she soothed, "There's always tomorrow if you'll miss me that much."

Shamal almost laughed at this, but he couldn't bring himself to go through with it. "I guess so."

And then there was that flash of concern, an expression he didn't really want to see, because it meant this was bothering him more than it should. "Is something the matter, Mister Shamal?"

He tried to quell her worries with a smile.

If you knew the one you loved was going to die, then the right thing to do was to tell them, save them. But this wasn't about right or wrong, not to him, at least. He couldn't even mix what he felt in this whole mess either, because that wasn't how things worked, that wasn't what he learned, what he lived with. It was an obligation—to who he was, what he was.

But still, the smile remained. A wink or two was even thrown in there. "If there was something the matter, would it be enough to convince you to stay with me?"

(Say yes—)

All it did was make her laugh again. "I almost fell for that one, Mister Shamal, but I'm afraid you've had your share—" at this, she even giggled "—of me. There's always tomorrow, like I've said." One last smile, one last look, last few words. "Please take care."

Shamal couldn't even look away.

"What—that's it? You just let her go?"

Shamal doesn't answer as he pours himself another glass of gin. He toys with the clear liquid a bit, lets it swirl around within its container, before downing it in one go. When he's done, he puts the glass back on the counter, lets one shoulder lift up and down in a half-shrug. "You heard me."

Gokudera can't even begin to understand what just happened. There he is, still on Shamal's couch, digesting a story that was just thrown at him with nothing else attached. He's trying to organize his thoughts, but all that does is mess them up even more, make him even more confused than he already is. Maybe saying it out loud will help, not that he thinks it really would, but he has no other option, "So you—went to her house, flirted with her, and stood there and watched as she drove off to her death? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

A ghost of a smile plays with the curve of Shamal's lips. "Weren't you listening, Hayato?"

This bewilders him a little, because he did listen, but now he's here, trying to look for the hidden meanings, the little things Shamal would always leave for him to pick up if he ever sits down long enough to think about it—except his search comes up empty, fruitless. When Shamal doesn't want to share, Gokudera knows that you would have to turn over every single rock and mountain to find what you've been looking for, but even then, who knows if that's the bit of truth you're after? He's known him for years, but he isn't any closer to figuring out the way he works.

So the only coherent reply he can come up with is, "Of course I was! I listened to every bit of it! But what I don't get is—if you knew she was going to die, why did you just—why did you just let her go?!" He's shouting by the end of it, shaking with mild rage that's continually growing. He doesn't even understand why he's so angry, because he knows the mafia never blended well with sentimentality, but he still finds himself asking, "Didn't you care enough?"

Just because he wants to hear something else other than I let her go.

He counted the minutes, the seconds, that passed by after she left, going by the tick-tock ticking madness of the wall clock. There was a set time when it was going to happen, and it was eight minutes past ten now, where the hands look their best. Not that he was quite sure where he learned that, but it was something about the angles, the degrees of inclination where it was two ticks away from perfect symmetry, that tried to convey a message he couldn't decipher. But it wasn't like it mattered, because like everything else, the hands moved on, tick-tocked their way into ten minutes past ten, and—

And like everything else, Shamal moved on too.

There was a nagging thought in the back of his mind, wondering about whether or not he did the right thing, but no, he told himself, this had never been about right or wrong. It was how things were supposed to go, supposed to be, especially considering his lifestyle. A mafioso hitman, born and bred to kill and love, love and kill, but there was a fine print attached to every contract: never get close, never get involved.

"Ah, this is troublesome," Shamal sighs, as he moves away from the kitchen and heads over to where Gokudera is seated. "You should be out there looking for a woman that will take you in as her husband or boy-toy, Hayato. Not prying into other people's business." He grabs him by the collar, pulls him up to his feet, and starts pushing him towards the door—same routine as last night—but Gokudera fights back this time, making it harder for him to be budged off the spot. It's annoying Shamal quite a bit, made obvious by the subtle way his eyes are narrowed and look a bit colder than they usually do, but Gokudera won't waver.

Not yet. Don't kick me out just yet.

"Wait—" because this is most likely his last chance to learn more "—just tell me one last thing." A frown settles on his lips, but he doesn't know why. "When she—when she played the piano—was she beautiful?" Even to him, this question is way too out of the blue to be taken seriously, but there it is anyway. He even has no idea why he's asking Shamal himself, but this man (as perverted and juvenile he could be sometimes) is his last remaining tie to his mother. Sure, there's the old lady back at Boccadasse, but Shamal knew her, knew her well enough to even flirt with her (Gokudera still feels like punching him for this one), and that's a big enough of a connection, really. To Gokudera, at least.

"... Because I can't remember."

Her fingers were long and slender, graceful, just like her, and the way they moved across the black and white keys was too fluid to be real. There was a kind of ethereal magic to it, one that could lull you into a trance and render you unable to resist its charms, but it wasn't like he ever resisted it in the first place. He stood there and watched her, listened to her play a song he never heard of before, taking it all in because this was the only time for him to be a little greedy, because it was a song for him, from her, and he couldn't get enough of it—and it wasn't even enough to stop him from craving for more.

It was a brash move on his part, but his limbs were moving before he could stop himself. In one moment, he was beside her, his hand reaching out to take one of hers in its grip, disrupting the music, disrupting the flow. He didn't stop to think; it was all action, all motion, all about the beating of his heart that wasn't telling him to stop.

But in the end, all he did was plant a simple kiss to the back of her hand.

He held back at the last moment, but he knew he broke something with what just happened. It didn't take a genius of his calibre to understand this, because all she had to do was pull her hand away and let him go.

It was the last time she played for him, and the first time he saw her without a smile.

For a brief moment, Gokudera thinks he sees a flicker of pity in the way Shamal looks at him and almost lets him go—until he reminds himself Shamal isn't really the type of person to even know the meaning of that word. This is further proven by the fact that Shamal just tightens his grip on him and puts all the effort in kicking him out of the house again. He tries to get the last word in, but Shamal cuts him off with a blunt, "You're wasting your time chasing ghosts, when you have real people after you." The smile on his face is clearly condescending now. "Didn't I just tell you to use your head, Hayato?"

And then the next thing Gokudera's looking at is the closed door in front of him. He contemplates getting the last word in, something along the lines of Well, screw you, old man!, but he disregards it and gets on his Brutale without thinking of anything else. It purrs when he starts it up, and then growls like it always does as he speeds off, to somewhere else that isn't here, that isn't anywhere near the man that could have told him everything, but didn't.

He doesn't even look back.

"You know, he's going to kill you someday."

It was a casual remark, a mere prediction that both men knew would come true whenever the presently eight-year-old Gokudera Hayato decided to grow up, let himself be manipulated some more by things he would never think about (it was a quirk of his, Shamal mused, a fatal quirk), and be led to believe he was taking matters into his own hands. Shamal understood this completely, and that was why he was here; perhaps to question the method to the Spizaeto Don's madness, because he knew there was an underlying blueprint of events that would one day rule their lives.

Or maybe it already was set in motion, and Shamal was just too blind to realize.

There was a lazy grin on his lips, while a fat cigar was burning on the other man's lips. They looked as if they were just enjoying each other's company from an outsider's point of view, made all the more friendly by the arrangement of teacups and biscuits and other miscellaneous pastries presented in front of them. If only they could hear what was being said, what was being discussed, then maybe they would have thought otherwise.

The Don laughed easily and without weight. "Of course. I'm well aware of it."

Shamal's grin widened a little, and made another comment like, "You had it all planned." It was meant to be a question, but it turned into a statement near the end. Maybe because Shamal was beginning to realize it himself.

"Not quite. Things just fell into place. Consequences are funny little things, aren't they?"

And Shamal laughed, wearing a man-of-the-world smile as he connected everything from dot to dot. There was a clever irony to all of this. It was his second chance to do things differently, to maybe make up for that one mistake he regretted, albeit fleetingly, but regretted nonetheless.

His second chance—

But the ending had already been decided.

title. (un)FINISHED.
genre. General/Drama.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Bianchi, Dino Cavallone, Trident Shamal, Mommy!dera, and Daddy!dera; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth. Gratuitous ... epic backstory-making. Yes.
wordcount. ... haha. 11591.
notes. Ah, there's a lot of filling in the blanks going on in this story (besides, I've been wanting to write something about Gokudera's mom anyway), but it was a whole lot of fun writing it all out. NOT THAT I EVEN REMEMBER WHAT I WROTE LMAO. I still need to reread this properly ffff. But anyway, hehe_05 was my artist for this fic, but she hasn't finished the piece yet. It'll be up pretty soon, haha. /o -- man, it didn't even fit in one post wtf lmfao. Also, this is written for the KHR Minibang 2008. 8Db
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. Consequences are funny little things, aren't they?

stargrind @ 2008-09-01T11:07:00

2008-09-01T18:22:02Z

☣(un)finished.
PG13 | ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS | 5719

It comes as a non-existent heartbeat, the slowly dying hush of liveliness that dominates the streets of Palermo. The sky sets with the dying shades of deep blue and silver, fading out to blend with the grey hues of the clouds. There hasn't been a single trace of the sun all day, so the switch from afternoon to dusk slips by almost unnoticeably. It doesn't look like the moon is about to show its face either, not when it looks like it's about to rain any minute. Three, two, one, and then the pitter-patter-pat of raindrops start dropping, painting the entire city with its aged appearance.

Like a line of ants, people scatter, panic settling in as soon as they start scurrying away for shelter. He watches this as it happens, safely tucked under the roof of his car, already headed home after a long day's work, without the threat of getting soaked to the bone along the way. A smirk curls on his lips, because now he's thinking, it's everyone else's mistake to not listen to the weather watch that day. Fifty-percent chance of rain—he didn't risk it, and now look who's reaping in the rewards.

Maybe it's childish (hah—a man of his age, and that word in one sentence; he thought he'd never see the day) to think of it that way, but it's for his amusement and nothing else. It's been a long day, after all.

But then there's the distinct sound of his phone ringing.

It's lucky that he just hit a red light at the cross-section, because it gives him the chance to take the call without a big distraction. He glances at the caller ID for a split-second—Cecilio? what's that boy doing calling him right now?—before putting the receiver to his ear.

"Hey."

"Cecilio!" He almost snarls, more confused than welcoming. "What's this all about? I thought you weren't going to contact me until tomorrow."

"I don't think I'm the one you're looking for, old man."

And then there are goosebumps all over the man's arms and hairs raised at the back of his neck the minute he realizes whoever he's talking to doesn't have the same eccentric voice Cecilio has, but something deeper, something that means he's fucked and in deep shit right now. He's about to start panicking, eyes frantically darting from left to right to try and see what lies hidden among the areas that aren't graced by the sickly yellow spilling from the streetlights. But there's nothing there, no one moving, so it looks like he's in the clear for now.

It's not enough to stop him from almost flooring the gas pedal, but he reminds himself, breathe in and out, and it calms him down. Calm enough to drive like he's supposed to.

Even so, his heart won't stop beating way too fast, and he has to adjust his shirt's collar in an attempt to calm himself down. He even looks like he might piss in his pants right about now. A gulp, and then his shaky voice slips past his lips, "Hayato—! I-I wasn't expectin' y-you'd pick up! Cecilio with you then?"

"No, he isn't," and Adriano swears he heard the unmistakable sound of something locking from the other line, "—but we can forget about him. What about you? Had a good time playing double agent?"

Shit. Shit, things weren't supposed to end up like this—shit.

"Listen, Hayato, it ain't what it looks like! They gave me no choice—"

"They? Who're they?"

It's an opening, a hand extended for a second chance, and Adriano isn't about to refuse it. "Gambino. Francesco Gotti's orders—good friend of your father's—and he knows you did it—"

"Gambino, huh? Thanks for the tip, old man."

There's a small crack from behind him, but he never gets the chance to find out just what the hell that was. The phone slips away from his grasp, and there's the sound of tires screeching to a halt.

Beep beep beep.

He doesn't even need to look in the mirror to know that he looks like shit.

There's the unmistakable stench of something (or maybe it's just that feeling of death) that sticks to every inch of his body, but it doesn't bother him. After all, this is just another day, another step taken to make sure no one can sniff out his tracks, if he even left any, whenever they want to. But still, he's flicking the bathroom lights on, peeling off his clothes—blazer (at least there's no blood all over it this time), shirt, pants, boxers, socks—one by one, until he's ready to step inside the shower.

The temperature feels like it's dropped down a few notches, not enough to make him shiver, but enough to chill his bare skin, and even the tiles feel cold under his feet. He might as well turn the hot water on full blast. His body can't thank him enough for it, because not only does it do the obvious, but it makes his body release the tension he's been holding in for the past few hours (days, even, because it's been a while since he last relaxed), soothes out his nerves, much like the same way his smokes do. But unlike his lady cigarettes, there's no rush, so he's left feeling more tired than ever. Not that he minds—it's probably way past midnight by now.

A few minutes pass, and he's turning the shower off. Water drips from head to toe as he steps out of the stall and onto the plush bathroom rug beside it. The white fur tickles his feet, but he takes no notice of it, simply interested in drying himself with a towel he plucked off from the rack. He wraps the towel around his waist—out of habit, even though it occurs to him later on that there's no one else but him over here anyway—and exits the bathroom. The closet isn't too far off from there, and soon enough, he's picking out a pair of boxers and sweatpants to ease into, dragging them low over his hips. With the towel still in his hands, he proceeds to wring out the last few dregs of water out of his hair, and he even turns on the television while he's at it.

The news anchor flickers into existence—a lady who's probably been in the industry for way too long, because she knows what words to say, what tone to use, to make it all look like she has that fabricated sense of sympathy. That's all it comes down to—a fabrication, a lie, but Gokudera finds himself believing everything she has to say. Maybe it's a sudden lapse in judgement, or maybe he's just too exhausted to even care, or maybe there's a sliver of truth in what the anchor's saying. The exact time of the accident is seven forty-five at night, but authorities have refused to comment—at this time—on the cause for this tragedy. An unidentified body was found inside the remains of a car that witnesses say suddenly lost control and drove straight into a line of parked cars. It is fortunate that other people only sustained minor injuries from the explosion that resulted from the collision. More details should be found as the investigation of this terrible incident continues—and then it's a black screen once more.

He's standing there, with a grim expression, towel on his shoulder, thinking about what's been said.

There's no sympathy left for the dead.

Thirty minutes pass by, and the door suddenly swings open. A familiar face comes marching in, and Gokudera has to resist the habitual urge to topple over and make quite a mess of himself. He narrows his eyes and growls out the obvious question of, "What the hell are you doing here?", because who in their right mind drops by for a visit at some ass o' clock in the morning? Not that he gets an answer beyond a neutral glance from green eyes just like his. The bare sight almost makes him lurch forward, but no, he reminds himself, he's gotten over this already—he doesn't associate her with horrific memories of poisoned cookies and Mad-Hatter-approved performances anymore.

He's grown up a little. Hasn't stopped just yet.

It's hard to tell with him sometimes.

Bianchi sends him a look that tells him he can't deny her what she came here for, and he can only glare right back. It's not like he has much of a choice when it comes to her—she never gave him that before, so why would she start now?—and this is something he's learned to live with, because what else can he do. Exasperated, he keeps the glare in place as he reaches for his discarded smokes and lighter. He's just about to flick the lighter a couple of times to get a small flame burning, when Bianchi's voice cuts through the silence and almost makes him drop what he's holding.

"There's still one left," she says, holding up a crumbled Sobranie Mints, sea-green and white a little stained, "You're getting careless, Hayato."

He shoots her a pointed look, "Tch," and lights up the cigarette. "Is that all you have to say?"

Dumb question.

"Francesco Gotti's looking for you. Make more mistakes like this and it'll be your body on the news next." Her arms remain crossed the whole time she speaks, her face as neutral as ever, but Gokudera thinks there's a slight twinge of concern mixed with her words.

He almost snarls around the cigarette in between his lips, but he just rolls it over to the other side. "Mind your own business," and he leaves it at that.

But it doesn't look like that's enough. "Hayato."

"What."

A long pause, and because of it, Gokudera's losing his patience bit by bit. The way she's looking at him, like he doesn't know what he's getting himself into, isn't really helping either. But then there is this—

"Just be careful."

And it's not an answer he was expecting.

"... Get out."

But Bianchi isn't listening. She sighs quietly and toys with a stray lock of hair. "You're too skinny," she points out, while looking around the apartment. "Where's your kitchen?" Not that she even waits for Gokudera to answer, because she's already heading there herself.

His temper flares out, eyes glaring at Bianchi's back. Who does she think she is? It's bad enough that she dropped in—but now this? He can only take so much bullshit before seriously losing it, so he growls out, demands, "What the hell?! I told you to get out!", only to be met with more of the cold shoulder, because it looks as if Bianchi's more interested in what's inside his fridge rather than what he has to say. He's probably twitching by now, itching to reach for his dynamites that'll be guaranteed to get rid of the annoyance (or create a bigger mess, but it's not his main concern right now), except he never really goes through with it, because he knows it's never going to work.

Maybe a direct approach?

Sure, why not.

He grabs her by the shoulder and starts pulling her away from the kitchen, dragging her towards the door. But before they even make it there, he feels a hand on his wrist, and his grip around Bianchi's shoulder is pried off. When he turns to face her, he's met with a stern expression.

"Hayato," she starts, "put some clothes on and set the table."

It's there and then that he realizes he's still not wearing a shirt.

"—You're beginning to piss me off." Not that he isn't already. "Get out!"

"Is that any way to talk to your sister?"

"It's two fucking thirty in the morning! What do you think?"

"Hayato—"

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

Bianchi lets his hand go, and then she slips away from his grasp, ushering herself to the door. "I'll be leaving Italy tomorrow," a glance back at him, "so don't lose your head."

Gokudera doesn't even get the chance to throw a comeback at her, because she's already gone.

His pocket jingles briefly when he fumbles around for some loose change.

Sifting through the other crap he has in there—his keys (for his apartment, not that he really needs it anymore, and his motorcycle, a wild MV Agusta, raw but tamed to the core, serves all his risk-taking needs to a fault), a crumpled piece of paper with a number he has committed to memory, a fresh pack of cigarettes, his lighter, and—proves to be quite annoying task, because he couldn't quite get the amount of change he needs, but he emerges victorious in the end. He quickly glances at his watch to check the time, small hand on ten, long hand on nine and ticking, and that's when he decides that he's waited long enough.

Knowing the Tenth, he'd already be up and about even at this hour. But this thought worries him more than it should, because it's most likely five o' clock in the morning over there. Even so, he has to make this call—it's long overdue.

Normally, he would've gone straight for his cellphone, but he doesn't want to be found, not right now, not by anyone, especially the Tenth, so he resorts to using this sad excuse for a shitty pay phone instead. Calloused fingers pull open the dirty glass door (it's seen better days, and today isn't one of them), shuffling himself inside with the necessary coins in one hand. He closes the door, pulls the receiver, inserts the coins, and dials the number he can never forget, having dialed it so many times, seen it flash on his caller ID on countless of occasions.

It rings, and rings, and rings—maybe he's still asleep?—rings some more until—it's early in the morning, after all—it keeps ringing. But before he puts receiver down in automatic regret for disturbing the Tenth's sleep, the ringing stops.

"Tenth?"

"Gokudera-kun!" He almost flinches at the sleep-hazed tone he hears from the other line. "I was getting so worried—"

"Forgive me, Tenth. I didn't intend to make you worry, but things came up," not that that's really a good excuse, he tells himself, "—still, I apologize for making you wait."

"It's alright, Gokudera-kun. As—as long as you're safe, that's all that matters—" Gokudera smiles at this, "—I have to tell everyone else you're coming back soon. They missed you. Myself, included." And that smile is completely gone after that.

He doesn't know where to start, but "I'm sorry," seems like a good place.

"Eh? What are you—"

"I won't be coming back, Tenth," and then he quickly adds, kicking himself for even forgetting, "Not yet."

"... I'm not sure I follow, Gokudera-kun."

"I know, Tenth." He's holding back details; he knows this. But he figures there's no need to let the Tenth know a whole family is after his head when the Tenth already has way too many things to worry about. So—in the end, this is all he says:

"Please just trust me on this one."

The last thing he wants to do right now is stand out.

But it's always been the first thing he ends up doing.

Even at age twenty-four, Gokudera still manages to turn heads everywhere he goes, and it's not because of the way he dresses this time (he ditched the suit today, on the grounds of wanting to blend in with the crowd), but because of the powerful growl coming from underneath his weight. The MV Agusta's Brutale 910S is neither kitten nor tiger, but a lion at its prime, alpha male of a pride, king of the safari, king of the streets. One look at it and you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from looking, from keeping your eyes trained on just how fast it's going with no problems whatsoever.

Riding it looks almost effortless.

But it wasn't much of a joyride getting to Genoa, especially since he came from all the way from Palermo (ferry ride from south, and a motherfucking roadtrip to the fucking north), because not only did the journey take a few weeks (he lost count a while back), he also spent quite a bit of energy trying to keep himself from being thrown off the seat every time he made a sharp turn. The detours he took weren't exactly friendly either. Not that he was complaining, because he went on this trip fully aware that the Brutale wasn't made for touring.

And he knew it was the only way—the only and fastest way to disappear.

He has forgotten just how busy this city could get when it was nighttime.

The perpetual noise of a bustling population doesn't die down when the sun sets; instead, it remains just as lively as ever, accompanied by lights and a whole new other set of people (party animals, night owls, shady gigs, and dumb fucks) that slowly takes over. It's a shift he remembers, a shift he hasn't seen ever since he left Italy for Japan—a shift that tells him things haven't changed one bit.

He isn't quite sure whether or not he should feel revolted by this sudden fit of nostalgia. It comes crashing into him like waves against jagged rocks. It's trying to budge him, to make him move, and erode, and break down, just like he did when every single door was slammed shut in front of his face (it didn't matter if he begged, pleaded, got down on his knees with the biggest kicked puppy eyes you've ever seen . But he doesn't give in, not this time, not today. Maybe it's because he's ten years older now, ten years wiser—

"Hey, Hayato."

—or maybe it's because someone just grabs him from behind, says this is for him from the good buddies of the dead, and then proceeds to attempt to bash his head wide open with a blunt object. The first hit almost knocks him out right away, the second one makes him forget how to breathe, and the third is enough to force himself to stay conscious and struggle his way out or else it'll be death he sees next. It doesn't help that he's on the hotel's rooftop (for sightseeing, he remembers bitterly—this is certainly the last time he goes here for some stupid sightseeing) with no one else but him and them in the perimeter, and that his Brutale is a ten-story drop away from him.

No escape.

But there's this persistent thing called the dying will that refuses to let him go down without a good fight.

For a split-second, he grimaces over how this is the most mediocre way of getting rid of someone (don't these idiots know any better?), but there's no time to criticize the chosen method of murder, because now he's busy freeing himself from their grasp and delivering a high kick to the first one he can reach. Adrenaline floods his veins the moment he makes a direct hit, and it's further fuelled when he sees two of the larger men come at him from both sides. He dodges them by moving backwards, and he doesn't waste his time trying to regain his balance; instead, he uses this as opportunity to aim a low kick at the nearest one.

This is also his only glance at just how many they are right now: seven versus one. Maybe he should feel a bit flattered.

There's a not-all-that-cocky smirk on his lips as he jumps out of the way of a kick sent at his face. Since he's so focused on that, one of them manages to swing a club at his chest, his ribs cracking at the sheer amount of pressure. Shit, that can't be good. Swearing more under his breath, he ducks when the man swings the club again, deals a punch to the man's stomach, and uses the time gained to step back and pull through with a low kick to topple him over. He springs away this time and then—he freezes.

His foot almost stepped right off the edge.

He glances back, glances down, and this is all he can say: "Tch."

"Fucked now, huh, Hayato?"

He scowls at the one who just spoke up. "Shut the fuck up."

There's sweat gathering on his brow. One wrong move, and it's good night for good, so he takes it slow. He's inching away to the side, trying to make it as imperceptible as possible so he can make a run for it, but one of the men still manages to pick it up. Before the man can alert his comrades, and before Gokudera can even realize he's been figured out, the door to the roof slams open and several men in crisp suits file out. Some of them move to give way to a man with blond hair and a whip that's ready to attack at any given moment.

Gokudera's eyes widen in recognition. "You—"

And then there's a flash of the calmest smile he's ever seen.

"It's been a while, Smokin' Bomb."

Gokudera feels out of place.

Here's a man in front of him with more experience than he'd ever have, drinking his cup of coffee like some kind of royalty with all the proper etiquette, and even the proper posture (what the fuck), and then there's him, sitting there like he doesn't know how to sit still, with wind-raped hair, purple and black bruises in places that can't be hidden, shirt untucked, pants a little muddied—you get the idea. It's like bikes, you know? You've got that sweet little Brutale parked amidst all the boring ones, the Yamahas (the horror), the BMWs (not bad, but it still earns a what the hell ranking), and the Suzukis (what the fuck is it even doing here?)—it's like that, only the other way around.

But it all comes down to the same thing: he just doesn't fit in.

"I should go."

Dino looks at him, and wears that smile again. "You should stay for the night. I already had Romario prepare a room for you."

"I can't—"

"No," and Dino's face matches the tone of his voice, neutral, but still stern, the kind you use when you're talking to a lost boy, "Stay."

Gokudera presses himself further against the back of the chair, a small pout riding at the edge of his lips as he looks away. He can pick up the slightest hint of playful condescension (is that even possible?) in Dino's words just fine. It irritates him more than it should. "I hope you aren't waiting for me to say thank you." Thank you for lending a hand. Thanks for saving my ass back there, even though I didn't really need it. Even though I might have ended up dead if you were just a second too late.

The other man looks at him with a fond sort of amusement. "It's not even about that," he chuckles, completely unfazed by the glare Gokudera sends down his way. "You just look like you haven't had a good night's rest in ages."

"I'm fine." Gokudera shrugs.

"Stay the night. It won't kill you."

"Whatever."

There's a gracious meal laid out on the table before both men, but neither lay a finger on it. The only thing Dino has touched is his cup of coffee, from which he is taking his last sip before finally setting it aside, pushing it away. "What brings you here to Genoa anyway? It's not everyday you see the Vongola's right hand man getting dirtied up."

Gokudera gives him the same answer he gave Bianchi: "Mind your own business."

A good-natured chuckle, and it earns the Cavallone Don another glare from him. But still, Dino smiles at him, just like he always does. "It becomes my business when my cute little brother requests—quite frantically, I might add, he really is worried about you—that I make sure you don't get yourself killed out here."

Ten years later and Gokudera still hasn't mastered the art of not jumping to his feet at the first mention of his beloved boss. "The Tenth—?!"

"Reborn told him what you were up to. He must have figured out what kind of consequences you would end up with." An easy smile rests on Dino's lips. "So you really have him to thank."

Gokudera uncurls the fists that had formed over an attempt to relax himself. He can't bring himself to answer.

So Dino keeps talking. "It was quite the adventure, you know? Trying to track you down, I mean. My men deemed the task impossible, because even with the kind of ride you had—it's begging to be stolen, by the way—we still couldn't find you. At least it looks like we just made it on time."

"... Tch."

"In any case, since you're here already, why don't you look around? There's a nice town just a few miles from here, right along the eastern side of the Corso Italia stroll. You might find it interesting."

"No thanks."

"Even if I told you it's your mother's hometown?"

In an instant, Gokudera's eyes are on him again, looking for any signs of a huge lie, but he's met with an unreadable expression on Dino's face instead. He isn't sure if he believes it, because how in the world did Dino know this, of all people, and why is he even telling him? But there's that nagging thought. What if it's true? What then? It's not something he can just easily ignore, not when it's out on the surface now.

His lips straighten into an even thinner line.

"Because it is."

That's all it takes.

He rises to a stand, startling Dino a little bit, but he doesn't alleviate the confusion with an explanation. Instead, he remains silent. Not a single word leaves his mouth as he moves away from the dining table, and since Dino doesn't put the effort to stop him, then it doesn't really matter. His heart pounds like it wants to escape, like it wants to run away just like him, because to deal with this kind of revelation—it's not easy. It's never been easy.

Maybe he does need that good night's rest.

But it's not like he'll be able to get some sleep after this.

It's funny how easy it is to fill in the blanks when the truth is pockmarked by uncertainty.

Already, he has this elaborate plan all laid out in his head, a plan that accounts for everything that was revealed to him last night. He's thoroughly convinced that this is just a ploy to get him into hiding in a place where no one is most likely to look. As quaint as it is, Boccadasse isn't exactly stellar in its appearance—it's just a quiet mariner's village with nothing new to offer other than its clusterfuck of sunset-coloured buildings and laid back atmosphere. It doesn't click in Gokudera's mind why this is even a tourist attraction.

There's nothing here.

So surely Dino was lying when he said this was his mother's hometown, right?

Gokudera couldn't be any more wrong.

Just as he's about to hop on his Brutale and speed back to Genoa, and give Dino a piece of his mind while he's at it, there's a repetitive calling of Signore! Signore! from behind him. Gokudera doesn't find anything weird about it, so he proceeds to wear his helmet and start the engine, until he's hearing his name called alongside the continuous Signore! Signore! His blood almost freezes in abrupt horror—

"Signore Gokudera!"

—because that's just about the most offensive insult to the spoken language one could ever come up with.

"It's Gokudera."

"Signore?"

"Just. Gokudera."

He takes his helmet off and throws a flabbergasted look at the old lady that wobbled her way to his side now, eyebrow quirked and twitching. There's a moment where he tries to look positively menacing, to scare her off most likely, because he really doesn't have time for what she has to say (something about the way he's scaring off the pigeons she's trying to feed, he bets), but the half-smile on her face melts away that resolve entirely. It's the kind of smile you'd expect from people who knows something you don't, and knows that you know nothing and are willing to dangle it above your head like a piece of meat. Gokudera frowns mentally at this thought.

The amused look on the old lady's face tells him that he might have frowned on the outside too.

Shit.

Slowly growing annoyed, both at himself and the old lady who keeps on smiling, he snaps, "I don't have all day. Do you need something?" The rudeness that comes with his words is an automatic attachment; there's nothing he can do to prevent it from rearing its ugly head. To his surprise, however, the old lady isn't offended one bit; rather, she's still standing there with that all-knowing smile, and she's looking at him the same way she would to a grandchild. Look at you. Just look at how cute you are—

"I knew my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. You really are her son."

And that's where everything inside Gokudera shuts down, while his complete and absolute attention focuses on her.

He's trying to come up with something coherent to say, but it all comes out mangled and ruined beyond belief. "You—I don't—how—"

The old lady nods her head once, as if she understands what he's trying to say. "Oh yes, I knew her. And I knew of you too, because of her, and her stories. She never had a picture to show, but there's no mistake about it. You may not have her eyes, but you do resemble her face—I thought I'd never see the day."

Gokudera falls oddly silent.

It's like broken clockwork by now. The gears keep ticking, but they're not turning the hands, they're not doing what they're supposed to do, because there's a wrench thrown in there—a wrench in the form of an old lady he's never seen or heard about in his entire life. It could be a hoax. It could be just another lie. But before he even has a chance to think about what he says next, the words spill out, his heart completely obvious on his sleeve:

"You have to tell me everything. Everything you know."

Maybe he's asking for more than he could probably digest, but this is a shot in a million—no, a billion times infinity. You don't stumble upon chances like this and just look over it like it's nothing.

He can't, at least.

It starts out like a fairytale that has already ended.

She says, there was never a day where his mother wasn't smiling, because she had everything she ever wanted: a quiet life, a happy life, a life full of her dreams coming true. It almost makes him smile just hearing about it, even if it all feels so surreal. It's like listening in on one of your history teacher's lectures about some dead guy you could really care less about, except it's your mother, the one you never got know because of consequences that both dictated your lives (he's getting sick and tired of consequences at this point). It's like that, so he eats up every single thing the old lady tells him, without even stopping to think about whether or not it's all true.

Because how could he, when he knows so little and the old lady knows so much?

He learns about things he never had the chance to ask: why she played the piano, because she could be feeling anything and everything, and people would still figure it all out thanks to the way her fingers worked the black and white keys; why she fell in love in the first place, because she thought his father was the one that understood everything she was about, everything she could be through her music; and why she kept playing even after he ruined her life, because she wanted him to hear her play a happy song again someday, the same song she played when they first met.

He doesn't understand. Why was his mother willing to do that?

The old lady pauses, sees the look in his eyes, and smiles. "Because she loved him, and he loved her."

An answer so simple, but he just can't wrap his mind around it.

It's never been his thing anyway.

So he asks the old lady to keep going.

Three times, four times, five—

He keeps telling her to repeat it.

He's pretty sure this is the eighth time he's heard this fucked up love story.

It's the only way he can get close.

And now here comes the hardest question to ask: "What happened on the day she died?"

The old lady appears apologetic, and she busies herself with serving him tea before she sits back down, ready to answer that. "There isn't much to say. She received a call that told her she's allowed to visit you. She was so happy." Her eyes slide to the left, unable to look at Gokudera straight in the face. The smile on her lips is uneasy, disconcerting. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you. I don't know what happened beyond that. All I have left are what I've heard from others. Rumours, that is."

Gokudera straightens up in his seat, attentive and listening. "Rumours?"

"Yes. They say there was a man with her that day."

"Was it my—"

"No. It wasn't your father." There's a pause right here. "I'm not really sure of this, but I heard he was quite the flirt. Black hair, permanent five o' clock shadow, with a smile you just don't want to trust. I don't know how your mother even put up with him."

It isn't all that hard to figure out who she means.

NEXT PART.

stargrind @ 2008-08-12T09:12:00

2008-08-12T16:13:57Z

☣articulated.
PG13 | GIFT | 4045

"You're late."

Gokudera doesn't look happy.

Yamamoto only blinks at him, baffled at the not-so-friendly greeting, but then there's suddenly a smile on his lips, an easy sort of reaction. His shoulders aren't even tensed, as if he doesn't really realize the gravity of the situation. After all, what is there to be worried about? Sure, he never made it on time, but punctuality has never been a strong point of his when it came to this. Gokudera knows this, should have been used to this, so he honestly doesn't see what the problem is right now.

Maybe Uri gave him another present on his bed, he thinks, and this amuses him more than it should. He is laughing in the next second, and he doesn't even notice as Gokudera's eyebrow twitches as he replies with a simple, "Haha, relax. At least I'm here now, right?"

The reply he gets is this: "You're ten minutes late, you idiot. Do you have any idea what that means?"

And he has to think about it for a while, because he doesn't know what Gokudera's getting at, but he attempts to answer it anyway. Just because it looks like Gokudera (if only looks could kill—) will shank him if him doesn't. "... I'm ten minutes—not on time?"

But Gokudera doesn't look any happier.

He flashes a sheepish smile, apologetic even, digging around his brain for something to appease Gokudera's steadily deteriorating good mood, but he is abruptly whisked away by a flock of women, who looked more agitated than eager (all ready to peck him to death, he mentally adds), before he even comes up with anything. There isn't even room to breathe, nor room to think about how nimble their fingers are when they got right down to work, because they're all over him within a split-second. His clothes are peeled off his body in a blink of an eye, and he can't even begin to describe how it feels to have a million hands skittering over his skin like a calculated mess, a thoughtful motion, but it's over just as soon as it starts.

When he finally regains control of himself, he is looking at his reflection, and for a second, he has to pause and wonder whether that really is him in the mirror. No longer wearing the clothes he just put on at last minute, without even thinking about it, he is now donned in a deep blue button-up shirt with pinstripes going down the fabric, a black single-breasted jacket and matching slacks, ironed and pressed to perfection, and a tie knotted just a bit too tight.

Everything looks immaculate.

He takes another scrutinizing look at himself, twisting and turning his body around, eyeing every careful detail—even, and especially, the Italian (at least, he thinks they're Italian?) leather shoes he is wearing. The clothes fit perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, but something about them makes his forehead wrinkle a bit in deep thought. They don't really fit him, he thinks, and that's a big problem.

A smile is shown to the few remaining girls still fussing over him, and then he pries himself away from their grip, decidedly ruffling everything up, making the clothes his own. Not that he ventures toward professional alterations, because that's beyond his scope of capabilities, but a simple unbuttoning of his jacket and loosening of his tie? That he can do, and does end up doing, because he looks completely out of place otherwise. He can see the horrified looks, hear the gasps in disbelief, but he ignores them and just answers them with a disarming laugh.

He looks good either way.

"Baseball freak."

Uh oh.

He turns around and comes face to face with a seriously irked Gokudera, and the only thing he can think of doing is shrug his shoulders, smile like I know, I'm sorry, before finally carting himself off to where the set is.

The first thing he notices is how eerily similar the set is to the hotel room he's been given to accomodate his stay here in Milan. From the patterned bedsheets down to the pillars (or are they called columns? hahaha, he forgets) and quirky little lamp stand—it's like they plucked off whatever furniture his room had and placed it here, but it's not like it bothers him. On the contrary, he's quite happy with this, especially since this means he isn't walking in on this blindfolded. Not that he minds that much either, because a guy like him always liked a challenge, but the familiarity helps with getting things done faster—which is exactly what Gokudera wants, right?

He laughs at this.

Nothing short of perfection for the ever-so-disgruntled designer, and Yamamoto has no doubt in his mind he'll be able to deliver just that.

Someone finally calls his name—Yamamoto, please step onto the set as we'd like to get started as soon as possible—and he takes that as his cue to get on with the show. His strides are confident in every way, but there's a certain degree of casualness to the way he moves as well. Heads turn, but not because of the way he looks, dishevelled as he is, but because of that permanent carefree grin on his face, and that infectious laughter he emits as he almost bumps into someone (the photographer, he believes, who almost drops his camera because of it—whoops, haha) along the way. No one would have regarded him otherwise, because he looks just like anyone you pick off from the streets, only he's wearing designer clothes and knows how to walk the walk.

A commercial look, and he doesn't even know how many times he has heard that line by now, but that's another story for another time, because right now, all he has to say is this: "When do we start?"

The photographer barely even looks at him, so caught up in setting up his camera that Yamamoto almost knocked over not too long ago, but he pauses to throw him an answer. "As soon as Hibari gets here."

"Hibari?" Yamamoto echoes, looking momentarily perplexed as he plops himself down on one of the white plush armchairs. He doesn't recall ever being told about working with someone else, nor does the name even ring a bell. When he looks over at Gokudera's direction, helplessly seeking for an answer, he gets brushed off, if only because it looks like Gokudera's way too busy yelling at someone again (haha, he really needs to give him milk one of these days), so he's still stuck at square one.

Ah well.

He supposes he can always find out the old-fashioned way.

And so he waits, and waits, and waits—until he's pretty sure Gokudera's going to pop a vein at the rate he's complaining over how late that stupid, dumb, annoying bastard (Hibari?) is, and he even has to stifle his laughter because there really isn't a point to pissing Gokudera off even more. He wants to call out to him and tell him to just relax, calm down, and breathe, because pacing back and forth like a caged tiger isn't going to make this Hibari pop out any faster, but he goes against that idea in the end, knowing fully well the repercussions that might occur.

But he doesn't have to dwell on that thought for too long, because it looks as if Gokudera finally shut up on his own—only to start complaining again when someone unfamiliar heads for the set. Yamamoto blinks at the person, and he finally has a face to associate the name Hibari with, and—he can't help but think he looks too much like a girl in that slim suit with its clean lines and a scarf tied neatly around his neck. Way too much like a girl.

But he can't say that out loud.

When Hibari finally reaches the set and stands not quite near him, but not too far from him either, he flashes one of his best smiles and happily says hello. "Yo," and it's a good start, because it's all friendly gestures from here on out, "Name's Yamamoto Takeshi. It's nice to meet you—Hibari, right?" He even extends his hand for a good old handshake, but Hibari only looks at him, studies his form, nods his head once, and that's it. There aren't even any signs of introducing himself right back, and this causes Yamamoto to blink again, but it doesn't make his smile falter, even as he withdraws his hand away. Maybe the guy is shy? He's certainly quiet enough.

"Alright, places, everyone—"

Time to get right down to work, he thinks. He'll wring out a full name from Hibari later.

"—Here's the idea. Both of you are business partners, but not quite the legal kind. Think shady, think underground; the black market is too tame, but perhaps something like the mafia? That sort of thing. Business partners that had a nice time out, and are now returning back to their hotel suite for—well," the photographer pauses, "Fill in the blanks."

Yamamoto blinks for the fourth time that day. "Eh? Fill in the blanks? But that's not speci—"

It's a sentence he never finishes, because Hibari pulls him right off the chair and unceremoniously drags him towards the door. He feels the wooden structure press against his back as he's pushed against it, pinned completely, caged in by someone who only gives him a predatory grin. "It's specific enough."

And that's when it hits him.

That's when he finally realizes who this man is.

Hibari Kyoya; famous for his explosive (and this is a term used quite loosely here) photoshoots with Gokudera Hayato. All for Armani Exchange, suits and ties, danger and everything provocative—hahaha. It looks like it's his turn to experience all of that, and he's beginning to understand why Gokudera always looks like he's enjoying himself in those shots, because the presence Hibari gives off—well, he's just someone you don't want to lose in front of.

Of course, he finds himself a little confused by what Hibari said at first, "... Huh?", but he gradually gets it as Hibari's stare never wavers, never stops looking like he's daring Yamamoto to step up to the plate. And so, he grows quiet, dropping that easygoing air about him to give way for something else, "Oh, haha. Alright, I get it," something that makes his eyebrows angle just a bit differently, makes his eyes sparkle just a bit darkly—something that turns that smile of his into a challenging smirk.

breathless.
photography by inaka ushio.
styling by gokudera hayato;
sistema C.A.I.

It's a showdown, an instant addiction, and it's pretty obvious that both of them find that it's hard to give up the facade they have up right now. Not when you don't feel like letting go, when you don't want to give in to someone else's control—but it's not a battle of pride, of dominance, because Yamamoto doesn't mind, will never mind, if Hibari takes the lead, but there's always a part of him that doesn't like the idea of falling behind, of not keeping up. So he keeps that smirk steady, locked, and he'll never let it tremble out of existence.

When Hibari leans his face closer, Yamamoto follows suit and almost laughs when he can feel the tickle of Hibari's breath on his skin. Hibari must have sensed it, since his eyebrow is raised, inquiring, inquisitive, but Yamamoto only lets his eyes do the talking (focus, come on, you want this, I know—), because the photographer's already busy taking the shot, taking a million of them, so he knows there's really no time for idle talk. Maybe later, maybe after they unwind, but right now, it's just them and no one else in the spotlight. Just them craving to break the limit, the fine line between business and having a little fun.

The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.

Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.

But he only laughs, because it's the only reply he knows. "That sounds unpleasant, but—" And it trails off like that, because his eyes hold that devilish gleam again, the kind that he reserves for this kind of photoshoot alone—the kind that he only shows to people like Hibari Kyoya, because he knows he can match it, he can make it work. They can make it work.

He doesn't even notice that split-second moment where Hibari just slowly licks his lips, because it's over by the time they're looking right back into each other's eyes again.

It's done for now.

"Perfect. We got it," is their cue to untangle themselves from each other, to straighten themselves out and wait for their next instructions. It's not too long of a wait, but the next few directions are just as vague as ever. Something about finding another focal point, about how Yamamoto needs to demand more from Hibari, about how he needs to take control this time around.

It won't be a problem, he thinks, and the idea just comes to him when he sees Hibari approach the bed, back turned, and completely unguarded. He allows a playful grin to crawl up on his lips as he pushes himself away from the door and heads for Hibari's frame, arms reaching forward and pulling him close without a second thought and with a whole lot of ease. There's no regard for what's proper and appropriate in the way he just settles his chin on top of Hibari's shoulder, completely boxing him in his arms.

He must have been wearing a stupid grin at the time, because Hibari only looks him with a disapproving, but mildly amused, glance. "You aren't getting into character correctly, Yamamoto Takeshi," he says, and he pauses for a bit. "Fix your face."

"My face?" And it's an innocent question, or, well, it should have been, but Yamamoto's demeanor has changed again, has switched back to an expression that makes Hibari raise a brow. He has to resist the urge to laugh, because the look on Hibari's face right now isn't something he expected (it's soft, and not unyielding; almost gentle, and not harsh), something he's a little surprised to see. Instead of making him pull away, instead of making him lose the momentum, Yamamoto shifts their bodies so they're facing the camera's direction, so he can easily lean back against the edge of the desk behind him, so it's easier for everyone to see what happens as he tugs at Hibari's scarf, as he unravels it.

As he slips a hand underneath the confines of that slim jacket and that silk shirt, but it's not deliberate. It never is. It's just something he remembers seeing in one of those late-night movies, something he thought would be fun to try out, and it is, especially because Hibari's just letting him.

But someone pulls his hand away, and that makes him blink twice, makes him wonder if he did it wrong or something like that. When he looks down and realizes it isn't Hibari who made the move, he blinks again and looks up, finally seeing another one of Gokudera's infamous pissed off expressions. The grin on his face is automatic; what did he do this time?

"You're not showcasing the clothes properly if you're going to hide behind the bastard the whole time. Shove off and don't get so familiar—" and it goes on, and on, and on, and Yamamoto really doesn't get what has gotten Gokudera so worked up, so uptight, but before he even gets to ask this, Hibari beats him to it.

"Are you jealous, Gokudera Hayato?" It's sly, it's underhanded; it's a taunt that riles Gokudera up almost immediately. Yamamoto has to come in between the two to prevent it from getting any messier, laughing like it's nothing big, like it's nothing ugly, because relax, relax, this is just for the photoshoot and nothing more. There's nothing to be jealous of (not that he really knows what Gokudera is even jealous about), nothing to get angry over—it's all about having fun, right?

And then there's the photographer's voice cutting through the tension. "If you guys are done—? We're wasting time here."

Yamamoto watches as Gokudera sends a scathing glare to the photographer, gives Hibari a look that even sends a chill down his spine, and he continues to watch him as he finally walks away, settles right back to where he was standing before the interruption.

The next prompt is simple: don't let them hear you.

Near the desk, near the pillar; it doesn't really matter to them, so they go with what's in between—the empty space, the middle, and that's where they go to stand. They don't have to lean against anything this time, because it's not necessary, not wanted, and they want to try something new, so they just let it happen.

It comes like instinct, like second nature, and it's like they've been doing this for a long time.

Every angle, every shot—it's a microminute snapshot of a mess that suddenly came to life.

And Yamamoto has to ask, "What do you want me to do?"

And Hibari has to answer, "I think you already know."

They fall right back into their earlier rhythm, like it's never been interrupted, like they never really stopped, because this is easy, what they're doing right now, and it feels like something they can keep doing for as long as it takes to get that perfect shot. But Yamamoto thinks it's fun too, a whole lot of fun, not because it's easy, not because Hibari's giving him that look again, but because it's not all that hard to lose your grip when you're standing way too close, close enough to hear the heart beat after beat, and have no one call you on it for messing up, for slipping up.

Not that it matters. Not in the long run, oh no, because he's got his hands wrapped around Hibari's body, and he's trapped in the same way, so his head can't be bothered to worry about things like that. He'll let Gokudera worry about that, but even that thought is incapable of staying too long, especially not when he can feel Hibari's teeth biting into his neck, into his flesh. A flinch is everyone's customary reaction, but Yamamoto only leans his head the other way instead—Hibari gets better access, right?—plus it seems like the right thing to do, because the only words coming out from the photographer's mouth right now are yes, that's it.

Stay still.

Don't breathe.

And because of this, the only time Yamamoto does breathe is when the photographer isn't looking.

it's a quiet whisper in my ears;
i can almost hear you thinking.

"Alright! Last pose, so give it all you've got. Give me passion, and lots of it. Got it? Good. Now off to the bed, the both of you! And Yamamoto? You're on top, so at least make it look like you own Hibari, alright?"

Yamamoto looks at the photographer like he's crazy.

It's only been a few hours, but he has interacted with (well, more like worked with) Hibari long enough to know that he's someone that can't easily be pulled around like that. He even distinctly remembers Gokudera having trouble pinning him down back in the day, so to ask for something like that—he can't help but laugh. It's a challenge nonetheless, though, so he'll attempt it anyway, but he thinks he can already figure out the outcome.

It'll be funny either way.

They aren't even thinking straight anymore.

Everything is on auto-pilot, and all the limits have been breached.

But still, Yamamoto finds himself faltering in his actions, because he keeps misreading the cues Hibari's giving him, keeps mistaking them for something else, for something a whole lot friendlier than what they really are. Not that he gives up, not yet, not yet, because this kind of thing is like any other sport—you screw up, but you can try again anyway, so why not take that second chance, and give it your all? Something like that, and somehow, putting it this way makes it easier the next time Hibari offers himself up, the next time Hibari provokes him into taking the lead.

And so he does, without a second thought, positioning his knee in between Hibari's legs, just because it's more convenient, just because it's easier to move around and press forward whenever he's given the sign. He doesn't stop there, because the photographer tells him to keep going, so he makes quick work of both of their jackets and discards them on the floor. It's just like in the movies, he thinks, the films rated not-friendly to all seeing eyes, but at the same time, it isn't like the movies at all, because one, he doesn't really know what he's doing; two, this probably looks as funny as hell; and three, it doesn't mean anything, not like it does when the two actors on the screen say I like you, and I like you right back.

He doesn't know why he's even thinking about this, thinking like this, but maybe it's because he has to pretend he cares, that he likes Hibari (which he does, he really does) more than he likes everyone else. It's easy when he just lets himself go, when he doesn't think, when he just lets his fingers do the talking, but it's not what he does, it's not what he's doing.

"What's holding you back, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Hibari asks, all of a sudden.

"Huh?" Yamamoto has to pause, has to take another second just to think (again and again) things through. His laughter is soft, quiet, and a little off. "Who knows."

Hibari's wearing a smirk, as if he gets it, as if he knows what's going on. "You're thinking too much."

(I know, I know.)

But Yamamoto never gets to say this outloud, because within the span of a few seconds, Hibari props himself up on his elbows and leans closer. This makes Yamamoto reel back a little, to create some semblance of space, because he's too close, way too close (it really tickles—), only to have his tie pulled at, tugged at, all the way until their lips met. It's electric, and he can feel it on his lips, on his face, down his spine, and everywhere else. For a moment, he doesn't know whether he should break away and make a run for it, but something in his head snaps, and he just melts right into it. His eyes are closed, and he definitely isn't thinking anymore, because it's all action and reaction from here on and out.

It gets a little sloppy, but Hibari's quick to clean it up, and it never shows, not on the pictures, not on their lips, because it's easier to hide things, easier to make it seem like nothing else is there when you're this close.

He doesn't feel like pulling away—or maybe it's more like he can't pull away, because he feels a little dizzy, a little light-headed. But Hibari is the first to break it off, and when he does, there's another smirk on his lips, and it's satisfied, and not so much like a predator's smile anymore. Yamamoto looks at him, a bit dazed at first, but when he regains himself, he can only smile right back.

It's just as challenging as the rest.

He was right.

The look on Gokudera's face is just as funny as he imagined it to be.

title. Articulated.
genre. General.
rating. PG13.
characters. Yamamoto Takeshi, Hibari Kyoya, Gokudera Hayato (on the side); Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. AU. Blatant, blatant faggotry. Fanservice everywhere. Implied 1880 (fanservice everywhere, seriously). Implied 1859. Implied 8059.
wordcount. 4045.
notes. For kyokou_kuroda. ♥♥♥ All inspired by that TYL!spread wrong posted, which led to the thought: "Seriously, Gokudera's like Vongola's stylist or something." Which led -- to this. Models AU. And fanservice. ~~And a poor excuse to try writing for new pairings.~~ I wasn't even supposed to post this in public, but I got bullied into it by annotate. CURSE YOU, ANG. And uh, this might have worked better with pictures, but lol, I can't draw, so you get my fail!descriptions instead. /o
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.

Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.

stargrind @ 2008-07-18T21:16:00

2008-07-19T04:18:17Z

☣technophile.
PG13 | K IS FOR KEYSMASH | 1728

It's a quiet night, a slow night—or well, it was, until just a moment ago, when the almost non-existent hum of his laptop's circuitry and motherboard is replaced by the onslaught of a door opening and closing, creaks and hinges included, alongside the proverbial slammed shut in your face sound. He twitches from his place on the bed, a quiet growl escaping him as his eyes snap open from their measly minute naptime ( it has started out hopeful enough, a hopeful quest for a nap that extends over a twenty-five minute timeframe, but it seems that plan is in ruins now ), clearly annoyed and beyond consolable.

There isn't a shadow of a doubt in his mind as to who is responsible for disturbing his quiet time, but he prays to every god that is willing to listen that he's wrong, because if he's right—only time will tell what he'll do. One glance at the screen, and it's quite obvious no one has bothered ~~wasting~~ sacrificing a moment in their immortal lifespan to grant him this one simple wish.

moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
...

Fuck.

His index finger is immediately on the touchpad, leading the cursor over to click on the continuously signing on and off ( what the hell is this idiot up to? ) screenname. The IM box pops up, and already, he's flooded with more notifications—in orange text, complete with timestamps—and it isn't really helping alleviate the irritation. Furious typing begins now, while he makes sure his pinky remains locked on the shift key:

dynamite project: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING.
moto is a tard signed on at 8:45:04 PM.
moto is a tard signed off at 8:45:24 PM.
moto is a tard signed on at 8:45:30 PM.
moto is a tard signed off at 8:45:45 PM.
dynamite project: BASEBALL FREAK
moto is a tard signed on at 8:46:00 PM.
dynamite project: STOP
dynamite project: FUCKING
moto is a tard signed off at 8:46:19 PM.
dynamite project: DOING
moto is a tard signed on at 8:47:03 PM.
moto is a tard signed off at 8:47:24 PM.
dynamite project: THAT

Not like the font size really helps, but in his mind's eye, he sounds more menacing that way. And miraculously, it even makes whatever the hell Yamamoto is up to come to a complete stop. He isn't sure whether or not it's safe to ask—are you going to stop being an idiot and act like a normal human being with a brain that isn't the size of a potato now ( wishful thinking, regrettably )?—but he doesn't have to worry about that for too long, because the window's blinking, and it isn't a notification this time.

moto is a tard: haha sry gokduera i was trying 2 get ur attn lol

He already wants to facepalm.

Or better yet, shove the keyboard down Yamamoto's throat.

dynamite project: By signing on and off?
moto is a tard: haha i was jst clickn the eye thing lol
moto is a tard: ur talkin 2 me now anywya hahaha lol
moto is a tard: guess it worked? lol

There's a split-second moment where Gokudera wonders about whose idea it was to bring this bastard into the world of the Internet and Instant Messaging, until it dawns on him that it's his fault. And it's all because the lightbulb in his head ( stupid piece of crap; he'll never trust it again ) went off after looking over his phonebills and seeing that he had to pay around ¥20000 due to unnecessary phone calls ( "Haha, hey, what homework were we supposed to do again?" ) and text messages ( "lol u wanna go out 2 eat w/ tsuna or sth?" ) he'd much rather forget about. But now that he's seen the kind of damage this is causing ( he doesn't even want to imagine its further potential right now ), he's trying to pass it off as a momentary relapse in judgement.

Because how the fuck could he have been so stupid?!

Not that he even bothers to answer this one.

Growling under his breath, he decides that he won't let this—or anything else that will happen throughout this entire exhange—ruin his night. Easier said than done, he's well aware of this, but damn it, he's going to try.

dynamite project: Shut the hell up.
dynamite project: What do you want?
moto is a tard: o nothin rly lol
moto is a tard: jst wanted 2 see how ur doin lol
moto is a tard: i mean lol
moto is a tard: you went home all pissed off, so lol
moto is a tard: i was kinda wondering if you're okay? lol

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

And again.

Did Yamamoto just type out everything properly?

... Hold on, he needs to figure out what to say to this. ??? isn't an option.

dynamite project: The hell are you asking for?
moto is a tard: huh lol?
moto is a tard: oh because you're always mad or something lol
moto is a tard: but today was pretty bad, huh, haha lol

If the constant 'lol' at the end of Yamamoto's every sentence isn't there, then Gokudera might have actually allowed himself to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, the baseball freak is sincere right now. And that maybe, he's not just this stupid dumb jock he's led everyone to believe—but that isn't the case. The only thought in Gokudera's mind right now is how much he wants to strangle Yamamoto to death and spare himself the headaches that came with him. But his eyes suddenly flicker back to the screen to read—

moto is a tard: even tsuna was kinda worried lol

—and it almost makes Gokudera fall off his chair.

He's not allowed to do that ever again.

dynamite project: The Tenth?!
moto is a tard: ... oops lol;;;
moto is a tard: i wasnt suposed 2 tell u that hahaha lol
moto is a tard: o well lol
moto is a tard: ur ok now right lol

But he doesn't reply right away.

Too busy typing up a text message that consists of about ten different variations of I'M SORRY, TENTH, I'M SORRY, and he even has to delete it a couple of times ( it's almost unbearably pathetic—maybe if he takes away a couple of sorry's, it might flow better... ) because he isn't happy with what's written up. Eventually, after insert-number-of-tries-here, he ends up with an apology he feels confident enough to send to the Tenth, as it clearly states out that he feels bad for causing the Tenth distress. There isn't a single attempt of straightening out the details—why he left the baseball idiot's house in a huff, without as little as a nod or smile, let alone a word of goodbye and goodnight—and there's only one reason for it.

It isn't necessary.

Tenth!! Please forgive me for my inconsiderate actions earlier! I didn't mean to make you worry. I'll make it up to you somehow - just say the word! |

It looks good.

So he presses send.

Only to have the dreaded MESSAGE NOT SENT notice pop up instead.

"The hell?!" Overenthusiastic clicking of a single button goes here. "Why isn't it working?!" But it's a question that answers itself, because he realizes why this is going on soon enough. It's the overdue phonebills, right, the overfuckingdue phonebills, and there's only one person to blame. That Yamamoto, his brain growls to himself, he's going to—ping ping ping ping ping—fucking—ping ping ping ping ping—what the fuck is going on. The glare on his face looks positively livid, and it doesn't get any better when he figures out where that wretched noise is coming from.

moto is a tard: gokudera lol?
moto is a tard: lol gokudera are you there lol
moto is a tard: GOKUDERA lol
moto is a tard: GOKUDERA LOL
moto is a tard: ARE YOU STILL THERE LOL
moto is a tard: aethegrahtga lol
moto is a tard: aehtaekjhtakh lol
moto is a tard: aetghaetkgh lol
moto is a tard: hahaha are we playing hide and seek lol

And it goes on, and on, and on like that, until Gokudera is pretty sure his ears will be hearing that incessant pinging for a long time to come. So he has to intervene, right here, right now.

dynamite project: WHAT THE HELL YOU RETARD IS THIS SOME SORT OF GAME TO YOU
moto is a tard: ??? did i lose lol

Gokudera can't take it anymore.

dynamite project: FUCK YOU
dynamite project: STOP TALKING TO ME
moto is a tard: ???? wait why lol??
dynamite project: WHY THE HELL ELSE DUMBASS
dynamite project: YOU PISS ME OFF SHIT
dynamite project: ONLY YOU ARE STUPID ENOUGH TO MAKE THE INTERNET A LIVING HELL
moto is a tard: but werent u da one who told me 2 use this hahaha lol
dynamite project: SHUT UP
dynamite project: JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP
moto is a tard: how do u shut up on aim lol??

By that time, Gokudera doesn't even know why he's still on the computer, much less what the whole fucking point of this was. And somehow, just blocking the idiot isn't much of an escape, not when he remembers he taught him how to make new screennames the day before.

There's no way out.

So he does the next best thing.

dynamite project: afasflsakjfaslkjaslskjf;slksaf;lskfasfkljaslfkajsflskafj
dynamite project: afasfalskfjasf;salfkasfl
dynamite project: asfasflkasjfaslfkjasf
moto is a tard: hahahaha what are you doing lol
dynamite project: asfsafsalfasjkf;alsfka;lsrkaw;lrkas;lfskf
dynamite project: asfsafsalfkj
moto is a tard: adfhgkaejtghakejgjh
moto is a tard: aetgjeotgiehaotghet
dynamite project: AFASFKSAJslkjsflkj
dynamite project: AFAALKFJA SHUT UP YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FUCKING DOING THIS TOO
moto is a tard: hahahah but it looks like fun! lol cnadkjgahkjthgejth
moto is a tard: qwoagjetgjdfgadf
moto is a tard: aehtgkjaeht

It doesn't even occur to him to just sign off.

title. Technophile.
genre. Humor.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth. Yamamoto + the internet. Stupid AIM convos. Stupid jokes. Stupid all over.
wordcount. 1728.
notes. For technophile. K is for KEYSMASH, right lololol.
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis.
moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
moto is a tard
has signed on.
moto is a tard
has signed off.
...

Fuck.

stargrind @ 2008-06-18T21:08:00

2008-06-19T04:10:52Z

☣flip a coin.
PG13 | TWENTY-ONE CANDLES | 5066

「H E A D S」

► 23 SEP 2007

One final spritz from the can of hair spray, and he's ready to face another pointless day. But he takes one last look at the mirror, fixes the spikes that need fixing, and then steps back to give himself a glance-over. Hair, check; uniform ( last few buttons unbuttoned, shirt not quite untucked, tie haphazardly fixed ), check; accessories ( his rings, his necklace, his lifeline ), check. The whole package, Gokudera Hayato, age fourteen, right-hand man of the Tenth Vongola, check, check, check. Everything seems in place. Screw it if it looks off.

Now the only thing left is getting himself to Namimori High, in one piece. Either on time, or not, who the fuck cares. As long as he gets there, sees to it that the Tenth is well-prepared and ready to tackle another one of Reborn-san's tasks, and makes sure that the Tenth succeeds in completing said task, no matter what the cost.

He glances at the clock. Right. Time to go.

He pulls out a cigarette from his last pack, mentally reminding himself to buy a couple new ones on the way before lighting it up. A few puffs of smoke, and then he's already making his way out of his apartment. It's one of those that look like it's about to get a demolition notice any time soon, with its leaky roofs, deteriorating paint, rusty railings, and a whole bunch of other things gone wrong ( gone bad ), but it's the only space he could afford, and it's enough. Anything's way better than sleeping out on the streets anyway.

The trip down the stairs doesn't take too long, but just when he's about to reach the end, he freezes in mid-step, eyes immediately narrowing. He shoves his hands inside his pockets angrily and practically storms down the remaining steps, passing by the idiot that tries to raise a hand in greeting but never gets the chance.

There's a laugh though, followed by, "Yo, Gokudera! Wait up!", and then the sounds of sneakers padding down the pavement after him. He can feel his eyebrow twitch. There's a part of him that wishes he had a whole other pack to smoke, because the one he has right now isn't quite as fresh as the annoyance he now faces.

"Haha, geez, are we doing a walkathon or something?" And somehow that makes him slow down. Fuck.

"Shut the fuck up, baseball freak," calm down, calm down, it's too fucking early in the morning to use up all your energy over this, "What the hell are you doing here?"

And of course, the baseball freak says, "Huh? Walking to school with you!", like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Something inside Gokudera begins to strain a little. Maybe it's that thing called tolerance.

"That's not what I fucking meant, dumbass! Why are you here?!"

Yamamoto looks at him like he doesn't know why he's so angry. "Haha, what are you getting so angry for?"—fuck you too—"Your place was along the way, so why not? Besides—" and this is where he feels that all-too familiar drape of a lanky arm around his shoulders, which subsequently makes him bristle, hackles raised, don't fucking touch me! and everything, but it just makes Yamamoto laugh again "—walking to school's way more fun when there's two people, right."

Gokudera doesn't even look at him.

That smile's pissing him off.

► 03 NOV 2007

He doesn't really remember why he agreed to this.

But he's stuck here now, thanks to that idiot's annoying persistence, and the fact that he's way too exhausted to argue any more than he already did. It's not a fucking long walk versus It's late at night now! So what, baseball freak?! versus What if you get kidnapped or something. What the fuck, what the fuck are you talking about?! versus Hahaha! I don't know why you're getting so mad, Gokudera. I said you can stay here the night, right? And that's where he got on his feet, went up to Yamamoto, grabbed his collar, and threatened to fucking punch his lights out, which he really would have, but—

But then the baseball idiot started laughing.

And it was so out of the blue, so disarming, that Gokudera found himself slowly letting him go until he was completely placated. Probably a little dumbfounded too. Yamamoto only smiled at him.

Said that it's kind of weird to have a sleepover when you're both guys.

Said that only girls do this kind of thing, right.

And said that it's fine and fun because it's Gokudera and Gokudera kind of looks like a girl anyway, so it works out.

And that was the part where Gokudera tackled him to the floor, near strangling him, but it didn't look like Yamamoto knew that his life was in danger, because he just kept laughing, and laughing. That kind of laugh that said geez, Gokudera, why are you so mad?

And that's where Gokudera pretty much gave up.

There's no point knocking some sense into a dumbass with a brain the size of a fucking baseball.

Fucking idiot, he thinks to himself, pulling the covers over his head, trying to get used to how the futon feels under him, but never quite getting there. Not only is he sleeping in the room of a defective dumbass, but he's sleeping on a defective bed too ( nobody told Gokudera that futons aren't really beds, but— ).

"Night, Gokudera!"

He's quiet for a second longer, and then, "Fuck off."

"Hahaha, sweet dreams too!"

And then it's lights off.

► 15 MAY 2008

Only one of them is laughing.

The other—way too busy trying to look the other way, trying to look like he's not interested.

The one laughing is talking about how you transform separate ingredients into the delicacy they're eating now, but it falls on deaf ears, ears that think he's bragging like a fool. But he isn't. He's just telling how it is, how it's so simple to whip up a snack for two people in just a short amount of time.

He gets a snort in response, and a rude comment about how this tastes like shit, but he only laughs, good-natured as always. It goes on like this for a while—laughter and growls, growls and laughter.

It's almost routine.

And both just fall right into it.

► 04 AUG 2008

It's been a long day.

And every single second he had left at Namimori Shrine is spent watching how funny Gokudera gets around Tsuna. The fireworks show is over, so now everyone's either just mingling around, or going home. They're doing a bit of both, because some of the stalls are still open, namely that one where you can catch a goldfish and take it home with you, and that was their original plan—until Tsuna's stomach started growling.

Now Gokudera's fawning over him. Asking him if he wants anpan, edamame, takoyaki, agemochi, taiyaki, or kakigori, because he's got them right here, ready to be eaten at any given moment. Yamamoto has to take a second to wonder when Gokudera bought all that, but he doesn't dwell on it. There's only laughter when he sees the look on Tsuna's face, and then he comes in between them, slinging his arms on their shoulders.

"Hahaha! Guess we can have a feast now, huh," he says, with a huge grin on his face. Tsuna gives him a sheepish kind of smile in return, while Gokudera grits his teeth and untangles himself from him. Yells something that goes like, fuck off, baseball freak! This is all for the Tenth, and the Tenth alone!

A blink, once, twice, and you can tell Yamamoto's confused.

"But how's he even gonna finish all that?"

"That's not the point! The point is—"

"Go-Gokudera-kun!"

"—yes, Tenth?" It'll never stop amusing him just how fast Gokudera can switch from being the angriest person alive to someone who's all smiles and eager to please. He watches as Tsuna tries to say that it's fine if they had to share the food, because there's no way he'll be able to eat it all, and grins a little wider when Gokudera agrees—sure, Tenth, of course!—but insists that the food is still for him and not meant for that stupid baseball freak.

Yamamoto can only laugh.

They'll be here a while, he thinks.

Especially since Gokudera's distracted again and is asking just what the fuck is so fucking funny?!

"Hahaha," it's wholehearted and simple, "You're a funny guy, Gokudera. You're a funny guy."

► 08 SEP 2008

Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. In, out.

The way Yamamoto tries to soothe out his nerves by controlling the way he breathes—it's almost as if he's the one trying to stay alive.

Haha, wait, no, Gokudera's alive, he's okay, but—

He lost a lot of blood, got hit by a pretty strong poison, but he'll make it through the night. Gokudera's a tough guy like that. Or that's what Yamamoto tells himself, just to quell the anxiety building up inside. It's not that he's worried—he's trying real hard not to be, because Gokudera will be just fine, right?—but the fact that this whole thing even happened—that's what pisses him off.

No one messes with his friends like that.

► 15 SEP 2008

Gokudera looks like he's seen a ghost, turning white as a sheet, or at least, that's what it looks like to Yamamoto, and he can't help but flash a sympathetic grin. Or, well, he tried to make it sympathetic, but maybe he didn't pull it off, because Gokudera's got his eyes narrowed and teeth bared at him again. Damage control time? Something like that—not that he really understands why he's raising his arms up a little in a half-hearted surrender.

"Yo, Gokudera!" And he adds a friendly grin with that, to show that he means no harm. Haha, it's like talking to a cornered animal because Gokudera just glares at him even more as he stalks away from the swing set. It doesn't even cross his mind to wonder why Gokudera's in a playground, but it still looks like he's committed a mortal sin or something like that. He never really knows what he's done to piss off Gokudera, and this time's no different.

"Don't talk to me," is what he hears from the pissed off right-hand man ( haha, man, Gokudera sure likes weird nicknames ), "And fuck off."

But Yamamoto only smiles at him, jogging to catch up, slowing down once he did. "Hey, you wanna come over for some sushi? My dad's trying out a new recipe, so—"

"I said don't fucking talk to me."

Yamamoto blinks, looks confused for one, two, three seconds, and then he's all smiles again. Guess they're playing the silent game again.

"Haha, sure."

It's not like this is anything new.

► 21 OCT 2008

He can tell the boy he's half-dragging, half-supporting is pissed off, the way he doesn't talk, the way his face looks like it's about to kill the next thing that comes into view. But he can only smile at this, to maybe lighten up the situation a little, because even if the outcome wasn't the one they were looking for, at least he's still alive, right? That's all that matters in the end—or should, but Gokudera's not the type to let things slide so easily like that.

"Hey, Gokudera," he doesn't really know where he's going with this, but somewhere along the road, Yamamoto realized that tying Tsuna in somehow here would be beneficial, so he tries it, just to see where it goes, "I don't get why you're so mad, haha. Tsuna said it's fine, right?" But the reaction he gets isn't the one he's expecting.

Gokudera pushes himself off from his body, struggles to stand still, holding onto a still bleeding wound on his stomach. Yamamoto reaches out to keep him steady, but the glare from Gokudera's eyes stops him dead, so he backs off, backs away. Even if Gokudera looks like he's about to keel over from the slow but continuous loss of blood. Maybe they really should have let Romario-san treat his wounds before leaving?

Not that he gets to think about this for too long, because Gokudera's talking, spitting out every single word with acid attached. And for once, it's not directed at him.

"Why the fuck wouldn't I be? That was a fucking disgrace on my part—I fucking won, you saw it, but that asshole just had to—he just had to—fuck—fucking shit!"

Yamamoto grabs his hand before he manages to hurt himself even more by punching the closest thing, which happens to be the a telephone pole. He holds him still until he's done ranting about this and that, about how that ring should have been his, about how it's going to be all his fault if they end up losing because of his slip-up. And Yamamoto just has to laugh, even if it's the most inappropriate thing to do, even if it earns him an elbow jab to the guts.

"You did your best, right? That's good enough."

But this doesn't satisfy Gokudera at all, and it confuses him a little. How many times does he have to say it's fine until Gokudera starts believing it? Haha—

"How the fuck is it good enough?! I let the ring slip out of my fingers!"

—guess this makes it three. "It's fine, haha. Tsuna said so himself."

Four. "So stop worrying about it."

Five. "We can always get back the ring anyway, haha."

And all Gokudera has to say this time is, "Fuck you," so maybe it's working? Maybe it's not, too.

Who knows.

Gokudera's always been a confusing guy, but as long as he's not worrying over what they can't change, then it's fine, right?

—haha, make that six.

► 28 DEC 2008

"Fuck off. And just get the fuck out."

"But—"

"What part of get the fuck out don't you get?"

"... Hahaha, is this another one of your games, Gokudera?"

"Games?! Is this just a shitty—you know what, here, let's play a game. It's called get the fuck out of my sight."

"Sure, haha, uh—I'll just uh, go or something—yeah—uh, sorry—"

► 30 JAN 2009

"Heard you almost jumped off here once," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth when he closes the door and crosses the rooftop until he's standing an arm's length away from the only other person out here. Yamamoto turns around to face him, eyes a little wide in surprise, and then there's a sheepish smile on his face. It's kind of awkward, it says—at least that's the vibe Gokudera's getting from it.

He tch's quietly, pulling out a cigarette to light it and breathe in the cancerous smoke. "Well?"

"Haha—yeah—yeah, that was a while ago." Yamamoto shifts back to leaning against the too-thin fencing, looking out at the school yard down below, where students are slowly filing out of the buildings, on their way home. Gokudera doesn't see the almost too-sad smile on his face that comes and goes in a split-second. "A guy can do pretty stupid things when he's depressed. Funny, huh?"

Gokudera looks at him, and then moves to claim a spot right beside Yamamoto, leaning his back against the chicken-wire fence, smoking all the time. "Nah," and somehow saying this feels a little bit too weird for him, "it's fucking stupid. But I don't expect anything less from a baseball idiot like you."

Something about Yamamoto's laugh sounds so happy, so amused. "Yeah, I guess so. That was pretty dumb of me. But good thing Tsuna saved me. Or else I'd be missing out on all the fun roleplaying games we've been doing, haha!"

Gokudera's eyebrow twitches, almost protests out loud that they've never been games, but he lets it slide. Just this once.

"The Tenth's an amazing person like that," he says admiringly, tilting his head up at the blue sky.

Yamamoto, on the other hand, looks down a little. "Tsuna? Yeah, he's amazing." A big grin, a big smile. "Great guy, haha. Great friend."

And they fall into quiet lull. No one speaks, no one moves—until Yamamoto decides to break it. He's pushing himself away from the fence, picking up his bag, slowly taking a few steps back. He looks like he wants to say something, but this is what comes out of him instead: "I should go—"

But before he manages to shift away, Gokudera's voice stops him, "Hey."

"Huh—?"

Gokudera takes one final drag from his cigarette and then drops it to the floor, crushing it with his sneaker. He almost looks annoyed. "I didn't tell you to go, baseball freak."

Yamamoto's about to question it, but he doesn't in the end, doesn't see the need to. Because this means they're good, right? But there's a grin on his face anyway, and it grows wider by the second, especially when he places himself right back beside Gokudera. He's laughing, and it sounds happier, sounds relieved, and all he can say is, "Okay."

► 29 MAR 2009

It's running late. 10:37 PM, and counting.

There's barely anybody on the bus now, just the two of them at the very back, a lady and her phone near the backdoor, an old man reading his newspaper up front, and the driver. That's it. That's all. No one's talking because there's nothing to talk about, and maybe everyone's just about to fall asleep. It doesn't help that it's been a long day, and the driver even turns the lights off.

A common courtesy, but Gokudera doesn't want to close his eyes when he's the one who has to watch out for their stop. And it's all because the baseball freak fell asleep right beside him.

He feels a light pressure on his shoulder, makes him look over and see that it's Yamamoto leaning against him. "What the fuck?!" he sputters out, and then he shoves him off to the side, making the sleeping Yamamoto wobble a little before steadying himself in an upright position again. And even though he knows the idiot won't see it, he glares at him anyway before looking away.

But then he feels that same pressure again, and Yamamoto's head is back to leaning against his shoulder. He clenches his fists and bristles up, but one look at Yamamoto's face and he suddenly loses the will to push him away this time. And he has no idea why.

He shakes his head, growls under his breath, and keeps that glare in place.

"Fuck you too."

「T A I L S」

► 01 MAY 2017

It's a change of pace, a change of style.

They've got nothing to lose, but they can pretend for just a little while longer, that they have everything to give, and nothing to be afraid of. Because this is just another day, another night, another thing gone wrong in the face of bang bang bang from the distance. The taller one, with a laugh on his face, ducks and cuts a corner to head straight for a dead-end ( deadman ) alley. The shorter one, a short fuse ready to pop, calls him an idiot as he growls out a long string of curses, bitches about how he should've turned left instead of right. Right gone wrong, wrong gone right.

But there's nothing to be afraid of, nothing to lose.

Even when the ground collides with a wall, blocking their escape, blocking their path.

"Fuck," he says, allowing a bright red flame to burn on the ring on his finger, "if we die here, then it's all your fault."

"Hahaha!" A short laugh, a happy laugh. And this one's got his sword ready, blue flame ablazing. "Geez, Gokudera, you worry too much."

"Fuck you."

"Bet I can take out more than you will."

"Che! A coward like you who doesn't fight to kill?" It only takes a split-second for a gothic weapon to wrap around his arm, ready to aim, ready to fire. "As if."

"Haha, we'll see. We'll see."

► 22 JUN 2017

"What the hell is up with you and sushi?!"

"Huh? Oh—haha, why not?"

"The hell do you mean by why not?! It's all you eat!"

"Haha, it's easy to make!" A pause. And an expression that is almost thoughtful. "Didn't I tell you this before?"

"Like only a fucking thousand times," but this one's reaching out to take a bit anyway.

A laugh. "It's good, right?"

"Still tastes like shit."

But Yamamoto laughs and looks away, just so Gokudera thinks he's not looking when the other man pops another roll in his mouth.

► 13 NOV 2017

Gokudera sees him come out of his room with a blank look on his face, something unreadable, but the moment their eyes meet, he's all smiles again. "Yo, Gokudera," he says, but there's something off, something missing. There isn't a lot of cheerfulness behind that greeting. It's a little bit more somber than usual. And the way he smiles, it's sharp around the edges, almost a straight line.

But Gokudera doesn't question it. Instead, he plays along, sees how it goes. "You being lazy again?"

"Huh?" Yamamoto appears confused, but then he gets it. "Oh! No, haha. Squalo's been keeping me busy with his tapes—they're fun to watch." And he turns around to leave, but Gokudera's hand shoots out to grab his shoulder and hold him back.

"I'm not done with you yet," Gokudera points out, green eyes narrowed yet again.

"Oh, sorry, haha. I'm kinda in a hurry, but—what's up?"

"Tenth told me to tell you that your old man's been looking for you," he blinks when Yamamoto doesn't show his usual interest whenever it came to his own dad, but he lets it go, "s'got something to do with baseball, is what I heard."

"—oh."

Now this is where Gokudera's taken aback. "What?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I know about that, haha—I'll call him up later." Yamamoto's turning away from him again, and he flashes an apologetic smile too. "But look, I really gotta go. I'll talk to you in a bit—"

And then he's gone, leaving Gokudera standing there, watching his retreating back. The look on his face says it all: what the fuck just happened.

► 01 DEC 2017

He watches as Yamamoto pulls his sword out from its recent victim, watches as he stumbles back and almost reaches out to stop the body from falling face forward, but he freezes up instead, eyes completely wide open in disbelief, because he knows that person's dead. And Gokudera's sure this is slowly killing Yamamoto on the inside with the way they glance at each other, both looking for answers neither one could provide.

"Gokudera—I—"

He curls his lips into a sneer, staring down at Yamamoto with a stern look. "Pull yourself together."

And when Yamamoto only blinks back at him, he adds with a threatening snarl, "'cause I don't need you falling apart on me. We still have a job to do."

Yamamoto looks away this time. "Ha—guess so..."

But Gokudera can see that his eyes are still locked on the bleeding body on the floor, and this pisses him off. Pisses him off enough to grab Yamamoto by the collar, pull him closer, and spit out words he'll never have to hear again. "So you killed someone. So what. Like I said, we still have a job to do. So wisen up, get over it, and shut the hell up. I don't wanna work with you if you're gonna be like this."

And he lets him go, and starts walking away. Maybe that was a little harsh, but he can't take back whatever he said now. Yamamoto chose this over baseball, so he might as well get a reality check now, instead of later, where it's going to hit even harder.

► 20 DEC 2017

He's feeling a little numb when Gokudera finds him, glancing over at the wreckage that used to be his home.

"Yamamoto."

"Hey," it feels weird to talk like this, like a kind of foreign taste in his mouth because it's so bitter and metallic, "the place is a mess." It's a solemn statement. Nothing else attached. He tears his eyes away from the bloody form on the floor, a face mangled beyond recognition, and half the body is even missing because it's buried under a ton of debris. But he knows who he is. Doesn't need to take a second look. And he can't bring himself to smile as he says, "Sorry about that."

"What the hell are you—"

"—haha. I don't know."

He really doesn't.

► 03 MAY 2018

And he doesn't know what to do when Gokudera finds out that Shamal got ambushed somewhere, and that they couldn't find the body, no matter where they looked. When he tried bringing it up the first time, Gokudera didn't even look at him in the face, and all he got was a simple, "I don't really give a shit." And that confused him, still does, because wasn't Gokudera pretty close with Dr. Shamal?

Something isn't clicking.

So he tries again the day after, just to see if Gokudera's doing any better compared to the night before. And since Gokudera has a knack for making it hard for people to look for him, it takes Yamamoto a while before he finally finds him, situated on one of the swings, smoking a dying cigarette. His hair looks a little different by now too, and even though it's the first thing Yamamoto notices, he doesn't say anything about it.

"You doing okay?" But all he gets is one look at him, and nothing else. He wears a smile on his face, and it's sad, but it's close to his usual grin—maybe he's not all that gone yet. But it's not about him right now.

He takes the other swing because Gokudera doesn't stop him, sits there for as long as Gokudera lets him, because this is all he can do right now. This is all he can offer.

► 10 AUG 2018

"The mood's been way too serious around here lately, huh."

"Sure."

"Haha, can't even stand it sometimes..."

"I guess."

"... Feel like going out?"

"No."

But somehow, this doesn't discourage Yamamoto at all. "It's the summer festival today. Heard the fireworks are gonna be great this year. Sure you don't wanna go?"

There's a long pause, where Gokudera starts smoking a new cigarette, taking long drags. He isn't looking at Yamamoto, and he even ends up turning his back on him, because he's sure he's close to breaking his blank face.

"There's no point without the Tenth."

► 11 OCT 2018

Everything was supposed to go smoothly, without a glaring mistake. They go in their enemy's base, take what they came for, and come back out alive, in one piece. But something went wrong along the road, and Gokudera was the only one who was able to find a way out.

But now he's looking for him, doesn't even waste a single second. He goes right back inside, kills whoever he had to kill, does whatever he has to do, but there's one problem.

He can't find him.

No matter where he looks, no matter where he goes. And slowly, there's a sinking kind of feeling at the pit of his stomach that slowly builds up, the kind that goes maybe he's dead, maybe he's dying, maybe he's already gone. And there's no way to find him. He's panicking a little now, and deep breaths aren't calming him down. But still he's trying to take it all rationally, argues that someone like Yamamoto isn't going to go down that easily—something like that.

And maybe it's working. Maybe it's not. But he doesn't have the time to think about that now, because—

► 11 OCT 2018

—there are people after him, on his tail, and no matter what he does, he can't shake them off. And the fact that he doesn't even know where he's going isn't helping either. But since the only thing he can do is run away, that's all he does. He runs. Turns left and right whenever he could, goes down the stairs whenever he finds them, but in the end, he's nowhere near the exit. And the people behind him are slowly catching up.

But the minute he dives for another corner, he freezes, because he meets up with the sight of a gun aimed straight for his head. Every single instinct inside him is telling him to duck, to find cover, or to fight back before the guy gets him first, but he's completely rigid, rendered immobile and it's not even fear. Maybe it's just the shock, or something else entirely, but—but then something happens.

It's a quick blur, and he's sure he heard the distinct sound of a gun firing, but he doesn't feel any pain. Instead, there's a familiar weight pressing him down on the floor, and the all too familiar insult of you stupid fucking baseball freak, and then a flash of silver hair.

► 12 OCT 2018

"That was crazy, what you did back there—"

"It saved your ass, so shut the hell up, baseball freak."

"Haha. I guess so..." When he feels Gokudera slump against him, he can't help but smile. "Is this gonna be another sleep over?"

"Tch—call me a girl again and I'll fucking sock you in the face."

"Hahaha! I know you will. You don't look much of a girl right now anyway."

"Just shut the hell up, baseball freak."

"... Hahaha. Night then, Gokudera."

And the smile's completely wiped off from his face.

「? ? ? ? ?」

► 18 JUN 20XX

"Hey, Gokudera—"

"Too fucking loud, baseball freak."

He laughs, just because it's so like Gokudera to complain about something like that right now. But there's a smile on his face, and it's not like his usual one. This one's a lot more content. "Haha, but I gotta tell you something."

"Don't fucking say it."

"Why not?"

"I don't wanna hear it."

"Haha, sure," he laughs, sincere in every way. "Guess you already know what I was gonna say then."

"Che! So why do you keep bringing it up, dumbass?"

"Dunno, haha. Just wanna make sure, I guess."

"That's what you always say."

This time, his laughter's a bit louder, completely amused, completely happy. "I know."

"So just shut the hell up."

"Haha, sure," he says, "Okay."

title. Flip a Coin.
genre. General/Fluff/Angst.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth. Implied death. Death. Implied 8059. OR MAYBE IT'S NOT THERE AT ALL. Who knows, haha.
wordcount. 5066.
notes. This is totally NOT for nerdraeg ( oh Addy ♥ ), who is celebrating her twenty-first birthday right now. LULZ twenty-one drabbles -- what -- don't look at me like that.
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. Twenty-one scenes, twenty-one instances. Moments that flicker in and out of your memory—one deep breath and it's all gone. Just like that.

stargrind @ 2008-05-31T14:05:00

2008-05-31T21:08:30Z

☣last minute.
PG13 | DREAM | 3316

A sharp jab to the chest, and the wind's knocked right off him. He stumbles, almost topples backward, but someone grabs him from behind and keeps him upright. That person hooks their arms underneath his and holds him like that, no escape, no backing out. And he braces himself, because he knows what comes next. A rain of punches, all aimed to make him bruise and bleed, a kick here and there, and even someone clawing at his skin, tearing at his flesh. People are jeering, laughing, pointing at him.

Just look at him! All the cuts and bruises and blood in between. Tears are threatening to spring from his eyes, and he's already trembling. Nearing the point of passing out, but someone keeps slapping him awake. Maybe it's Zucco's voice, or Zucco's foul breath on his face—he can't tell which. Then there are the sounds of people gasping, oooh'ing and aaah'ing, and then silence, the kind you associate when certain doom ( your doom, no less ) is approaching. Did he make a face? Scrunch up his nose in disgust, because he's sick of breathing in that stench?

"What was that look for, Dino?"

He freezes. Hah—it seems even his very own body betrays him now.

There's an easy smile on his lips. It's almost disarming, but it doesn't stop the punches from coming. It might have made their intensity even worse. But he takes every single one of them, barely making a sound save for the few incoherent ones. He knows he looks pathetic right now, and he can already hear Reborn chiding him in his head. No good, no good. You're the future Tenth boss of the Cavallone family. This is unacceptable. And Dino laughs, mentally, because to laugh out loud now is suicide, right?, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

Because he can hear the tone and knows how the words will flow out of Reborn's mouth. It's ridiculous, the baby will say in disapproval. This is ridiculous, Dino thinks, it's ridiculous that he has to hear it from a child not even a year old but old enough to know everything there is about the world, how it works, and what Dino's part is in this whole thing more than he does. Maybe that's why he's laughing. Maybe that's why he stops and flashes a rueful smile instead.

There's something sad about this, he reasons, but whatever thought follows that is cut short when Zucco's voice floats back to his ears, along with the reminder of how much pain he's in right now. He cringes.

"Hey, Dino," comes the drawn-out growl, low and threatening. He opens his eyes the moment chubby fingers grab at his shirt's collar, and he blinks. A twisted grin is on Zucco's face, and Dino doesn't really know why it's there. Doesn't dare to ask.

"H-hey, Zucco." It comes out a little airy. Maybe a bit dizzy. The smell of blood is right under his nose, his eyes, his face, his shirt ( ah—Romario will give him that look again, reproachful, but soft, never judgmental ), everywhere. It's a little funny that all Dino could think of is how will he explain this to Reborn, to Romario, to all the people he's letting down by allowing himself to get tangled up in such a mess. I'm sorry, maybe that's how he'll start it, they caught me from behind, didn't see their hands—it's fine, it doesn't hurt as much anymore—

But there's another kind of ache, and it starts at his neck. It's telling him, hey, I'm a little stiff, so can you move your head a little? He shifts, ends up dipping his nose in something moist, something that smells funny. It wakes him with a start. He's finally aware of the hard surface his head is settled on, also becomes aware of the rustling of papers as he moves his hand to push himself up to properly lean back against the chair. Blinking, he looks down at his desk and notices the small puddle of drool. He almost laughs. A man of his age, thirty-two and counting, still drooling in his sleep. Maybe this is a sign that he needs to relax a little.

He smiles fondly while wiping his nose and lips clean with his sleeve, looking at nothing in particular, as if deep in thought. Seeing as he fell asleep inside his office, on his desk no less, maybe he should give himself a little breather. Forget everything for a moment, and massage his neck while he's at it. It's only for a few seconds anyway. Briefly, he wonders why Romario hasn't—the smile vanishes from his face—oh. Oh, that's right. How silly of him to keep forgetting.

Romario died three days ago.

He was killed—no—he shoved Dino away from the bomb that was meant for him and left behind nothing but the memory of his last serene smile. Dino blames himself for this ( he does it every time another life is claimed instead of his ) and maybe he'll never forgive himself. But he understands that this is how cruel the world can get, and he tries to move on, as best as he can. It's a grim smile that graces his lips this time.

They weren't even able to give him a proper funeral.

A sigh; it's small and quiet. That moment is gone now, the few seconds. He didn't even realize.

From his peripheral view, he notices that there's a car that just pulled up by the driveway. "Bono," he breathes out, and he promptly smiles in amusement. His voice sounds so muted inside this room. Can't help but laugh a little, dry, but it's not without a smidge of mirth. He's not that gone yet, he reminds himself. Romario wouldn't like it if he is.

The window tells him that Bono is no longer inside the car, but probably somewhere near the door by now. Time to make yourself a bit more presentable. Quickly, he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up, combing it straight. He fixes his tie, smoothes out the creases on his shirt, clears his desk of all the clutter, and swipes the small puddle with his handkerchief as a finishing touch. There. All done. And just in time too.

Knock, knock.

"Who's there?"

It's the start of a joke.

"Boss—" Dino could tell it's not going to be a funny one. "—it seems Sasagawa Ryohei and the Varia were caught up in an ambush by Irie Shouichi's squad yesterday." He doesn't move; just sits there and waits for Bono to finish. Bono goes on, his voice just as dismal as the atmosphere. "There— ... weren't any survivors," the older man finishes, and neither one of them says a word after that.

It's a rigid, sterile sort of silence.

Bono looks at him expectantly. Dino looks back.

"Boss?" Say something. Please. That's what the look on Bono's face is telling him right now.

Dino's lips twitch, curve up a little, and smile. It's a joke, right? Even if it's not funny. But there's a sinking feeling that hazes over his whole mood, twisting it around until everything's upside-down. He looks tired now, body shifting to prop an elbow against the desk so he can hold his head. A headache forms, and he can't even find the words to say anymore. Maybe he's not supposed to. Maybe he should just leave it at that. But Bono doesn't move from where he is, as if waiting.

Dino looks up, and for a moment, he's expressionless, but in the end, the smile he's infamous for is back. Don't worry, don't worry, is what he's trying to say in that certain curve of his lips. "The Varia is an elite squad. I'm sure they won't go down that easily," is how he starts, calmly, securely, "And as for Sasagawa Ryohei—he's the Vongola's Sun Guardian. He'll be fine."

They'll be fine.

"There's no way—" they're dead. But he can't say this out loud, can't bring himself to finish the sentence. It would almost feel like he was jinxing it, if he did. But it's not like he needs to, because it looks like what he said is enough to placate Bono's worries. His smile brightens a little. As long as their spirits aren't as bleak as the day today, and the days ahead of them, they should be fine.

They'll be fine.

But then there's the unmistakable sound of gunfire from not so faraway, rata-tat-tat like a clock on fastforward. Dino's already on his feet, barking orders at a startled Bono, missing not a single beat. "Round everybody up! If there's anyone injured, take care of them first, and then drive the enemy back. Tell Romario to find me—" And it's only right after he got out of his office and jumped off the balcony that he realizes the last bit of that can't really be fulfilled.

He almost stops, but he doesn't. He can't waste any time on this. Not when other lives are at stake—

Instincts tell him to look up, and he does, just in time to hear the telltale clickclickclick and see that there are three pool balls headed straight for him. Electricity zips along their surface like an intricate web, would've shot him dead had he not run off to the side, barely missing a direct hit. He hears a slick laugh, and that makes him look up again. He almost freezes. Because floating in the air, with the same electric web as the three balls, is the man he's been told to watch out for.

"Oh? You're faster than I expected," is what the man says. There's an air of smugness around him, and it makes Dino narrows his eyes a little, but for the most part, his face remains neutral. He hasn't pulled out his weapon—not yet, not yet. All he does is watch as a lazy smirk forms on the man's face, one hand combing through blond hair just like his. "Just for that maybe I'll introduce myself."

But Dino never lets him. "Electric Gamma, captain of the third Alephandra Squad. Is that right?" A polite tone, as always. Calm as ever. There's no need to panic anyway.

A smooth whistle, and then Gamma hovers a bit closer to the ground, but not quite enough. "You've done your homework," he says, cue stick in hand, ready to pounce at any moment.

"Not quite. I've just heard a lot about you." But Dino finds himself thinking, even glancing around from left to right as inconspicuously as he could, is he the only one out here? Where are the rest of them?

Gamma seems to have noticed the look on his face. "They're around," he asserts, succeeding in raising a few hairs on Dino's arms. "But you don't have to worry about them. It's just you and me, you know, but it doesn't have to be. Your choice." And as if on cue, men in black uniform suddenly zoomed in his line of view, all floating nearby and around their captain. It only takes a few seconds later for Dino's men to appear, armed and ready to protect their boss too.

Dino glances back at them, looks as if he has something to say, but gets cut off quite effortlessly.

"Don Cavallone," and he's right back to looking up at Gamma, "I forgot that I've brought a friend along the way. To make our meeting more comfortable." One of Gamma's men hands over a brown sack, and there's something dark staining it. Dino couldn't tell; the sun's hidden behind the clouds. "I know you two were close." And Gamma simply turns over the sack and lets whatever it is inside drop carelessly to the ground below. Long white hair, face frozen in perpetual disregard.

Dino bites down on his bottom lip and looks away. Something inside him cracks a little. Maybe it's his resolve, maybe it's his undying optimism. They'll be fine, huh? But he shakes that thought away before it snowballs into a bigger one. Of course they will be. He just has to take this in stride, like he always has.

"We can have a tea party. The three of us, like old times—" Another smirk. "Won't you come say hello?"

He doesn't smile this time. Instead, his lips stretch out into a thin line, oddly straight and not quite fitting for the man who smiles like the sun. His body is stiff. Tense. His men behind him are the same. He glances back at them, slowly relaxes, and finally lets his ring burn with a bright orange flare. A box is pulled out, activated, and soon enough, there's the familiar weight of his whip in his hand, a line of flames licking down its length every now and then. A representation of the sky, the sky that's missing right now.

But it doesn't matter one bit.

It's not him who makes the first move, but he doesn't fail to follow through. Gamma aims to strike him down with a tower of electricity, but he counters by bringing out another box, summoning an arc of water around him and his men. It tranquilizes the attack's intensity, but it's not enough to stop a faint jolt from passing right through them. For this, Dino apologizes with a sheepish smile, but at least it looks like everyone's unharmed.

Another whistle, and an easy-going smile. "Looking out for others already? You should be more worried about your own welfare."

"I don't need to," and Dino says this without a hint of arrogance, "Just leave them out of this if you want me all to yourself."

Gamma laughs, holds his cue stick in a horizontal manner, parallel to the ground, with the electric balls floating around him. "I'll give you my word for that," it all sounds smooth and sweet, "but I can't guarantee you everything." Because his men are on the move too, attacking from all directions. Dino's men are just as ready, just as aggressive, and just as willing to die as the rest of them.

And it's a battle that lasts for hours.

People from both sides dying left and right, fighting gunfire with gunfire, blades with blades, flames against flames. It doesn't matter who you're fighting for, because it's all about who has the stronger dying will. The will to stay alive.

Somewhere along the line, Dino got separated from his men because everyone scattered and Gamma kept drawing him out as far away from where they are. He hasn't stopped worrying about them since. But it doesn't reflect in his moves, the way he allowed his whip to follow his rhythm and flow. Each twist of his arm and wrist make for subtle control, but definite grace—they hit the mark, no matter which way he wants to go. But there's a small problem. Both Gamma and he are able to avoid and counter each other's attacks quite well.

A stalemate, and neither one of them is satisfied with that.

"Not bad, Don Cavallone," comments Gamma, and Dino can't help but smile at that. That's just who he is.

"You're not so bad yourself," he replies truthfully, with nothing else attached.

It's almost nice to be able to talk like this. As if nothing's wrong. As if this is just a friendly spar between two equally-matched people. But that's just too much to hope for, Dino thinks, as he prepares himself for another attack. Gamma charges at him; close combat, so he has to think fast, but think straight at the same time. He uses the few short seconds to swing his arm up in a constant, fluid motion, his whip fully extending throughout the upswing, and then he steps forward and snaps his wrist to throw the whip at Gamma directly ahead. A loud crack, but his target easily swerves to the left. Which is exactly what Dino's been waiting for.

He brings his feet together and turns in a roundabout clockwise way, swinging his whip over his head. When he can see Gamma again, he directs the whip in the right direction and reverses it as quickly as he could, creating a loop that neatly wraps itself around the other man's neck. Gamma never sees it coming.

"This is the end," Dino states, as he pulls on the whip to tighten its grip. It's a guaranteed win, but he doesn't look too happy about it. He looks somber, almost, a little apologetic. But maybe it's because he's about to snuff out another life—it doesn't even matter who it belongs to—and that kind of thing never really sits well with him. It's not his style, if he could help it, but right now, he has no choice, because if he let this man go, if he let him live—he might regret it in the long run. And this isn't even about revenge, or making Gamma pay for everything he and the Millefiore did to everyone Dino knows, but it's just the fact that if he stays alive, then more people would get hurt. More people would die.

That's the only thing pushing Dino into killing him right there and then.

But there's a sudden bangbangbang from behind him, and then the next thing he knew, he's on his knees, crashing face first to the concrete ground. Three bullets, two pierced right through the center of his guts, and one close to his heart, but not close enough. He twitches, shaking, trembling, struggling to raise himself up, to stand up again, but he couldn't. Laughter is the next thing he hears, but it's not coming from Gamma.

"We did it, captain! We won—"

For once, Dino's glad he isn't looking, because what he hears next is enough to tell him what happened. The cackle of a huge blast of electricity, followed by an ear-splitting shriek, and then it's silent once more. Just like that.

The click and clack of boots against concrete suggests that Gamma closed the distance between the two of them. "Now where were we?" is the disinterested question, aloof, as if nothing happened. But Dino knows that Gamma's pissed off. Who wouldn't be, after something like that. "Oh, yes," there's the crackling of high voltage again, "I was about to show you the doorway to heaven."

Dino would've refuted—wasn't it the other way around?—but he can't find his voice.

"Scared, Don Cavallone?"

But Dino doesn't answer yet.

He doesn't know why he remembers it now, that dream he had hours before this whole mess. The dream itself never finishes, but the memory is still clear inside his head. It manifests itself, like a vision with ghosts and whispers—Zucco's voice asks him the same thing. Scared, Dino?

Are you scared of death?

His answer comes out as gargled sounds, with blood pouring out of his lips. They're broken sounds that seem almost desperate, sick, amused, and maybe even a little sad.

His final laughter.

Dino wonders if this is how it had been like for Tsuna, when it happened to him just a few months ago. Did he regret the same things, was he crying and smiling like Dino is right now—was he scared? Were you scared, my cute little brother? But he doesn't find an answer. Not that he needs to look for one, because he can guess what it had been like. It's happening to him right now, isn't it? He can't help but widen his smile just a tad. Hah—or maybe it's not even the same at all.

Who knows. But if Romario was here, then he would—oh, oh, that's right.

"Is that a yes, then?"

Yes.

"... No."

I'm sorry—

title. Last Minute.
genre. Drama.
rating. PG13.
characters. Dino Cavallone, Gamma, Zucco; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. ... hahaha. Uhm. Death? Who knows.
wordcount. 3316.
notes. Zucco is a character named in the Dino-centric novel, Haneuma Stampede. And somehow, This Is Your Life by Switchfoot fits this whole thing v. well.
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. "Scared, Don Cavallone?"

But Dino doesn't answer yet.

He doesn't know why he remembers it now, that dream he had hours before this whole mess. The dream itself never finishes, but the memory is still clear inside his head. It manifests itself, like a vision with ghosts and whispers—Zucco's voice asks him the same thing. Scared, Dino?

Are you scared of death?

stargrind @ 2008-04-23T22:20:00

2008-04-24T05:35:47Z

☣in danger of.
PG13 | COLOGNE | 3923

It's the end of yesterday, and the start of tomorrow. The clock ticks right into the countdown seconds of twelve midnight, ten, nine, eight, seven—wait. There's a heartbeat, and it skips a few chords; it's like learning how to believe all over again, because there it is. Illuminated by a green glow, it's haunting; near ghastly, but the faint traces of white light make it look almost ethereal, surreal—unreal. Fine detail is lost, but he can't miss the traceried windows, the pointed arches, the twin spires, and the majestic façade it's all about. It's a stairway to heaven, to a god that might exist and might not at the same time.

He can't help but put a palm on top of his heart, to feel it beating, feel it pounding, feel it stop, because in that one moment, that one second right after twelve, time freezes. It freezes, because the moving picture frame in front of his eyes demanded complete attention, no distractions, but he's fine with that. He'll comply with that. Anything to further the appreciation of what he deems to be the pinnacle of art, of faith, of believing way too much.

12:02AM, and that moment
(come back please come back—)
slips away. Just like that.

The fifty-seven year old man releases the breath he's been holding; it got caught up in his throat, caught up in that sixty-second private film of man-made beauty. He knows it's all a fabrication, an imitation copy of what it's like to be beautiful, but his kind eyes, tired eyes, love it all the same. Enjoys it, lives for it. Because eventually you learn to cherish perfection in any shape, way, or form, and you come to realize that there's nothing wrong with lying to yourself every now and then.

He does it everyday.

He's doing it right now, and as much as he would like/love to stop pretending, he can't, he wouldn't. He won't. Not when tonight and today is the start of a better—brighter—happy tomorrow, when everyone refuses to be fast asleep, in exchange for a few hours of made-up pleasantry, of I'm okay, we're okay, nothing's wrong, and everything's just fine. It always had been, it always will be—but the man knew better, knows better, because it's only been a week since they received a rumor (another fabrication, or maybe it's a well-thought out truth? a lie?), news that told them they've been infiltrated, betrayed.

But who? is the question on everyone's lips. Why? is the question on everyone's minds. How? is the question they don't want to ask.

"Some are better left unanswered," he remembers himself saying, to a young girl in his arms with kind eyes, tired eyes just like his own. The waves of her black hair got tangled in his fingertips as he tried to tame it; they curled, and twirled, and felt alive. And for that brief period in time, when she cuddled up even closer, put her ear to his heart so that she could listen to the b-b-beating of his chest and ribs, he didn't have to lie to himself. She was perfection coinciding with beauty right there and then.

Suddenly, there's an ache, the kind you associate with a left arm going numb, but it's not enough to kill, just enough to make him miss the feeling of hugging her close, of knowing that she's just a bedroom away from where he usually sleeps. But right now, the inane chatter that bubbles throughout the whole room finally tears him away from his own little world; it makes him avert his eyes from the glass window to what's always been around him.

It's a splash of red and gold with wood littered all around, and the floor is made out of the finest marble the world has to offer. Curtains of crush velvet drape from the ceiling, all the way to the floor; they're almost too soft to touch. A string quartet is off to the side, playing music that only adds up to the opulent atmosphere that already has the entire crowd and place in a trance-like grip. A quiet sort of lull, of relaxation, of hello, good evening, would you like to dance tonight? It amuses him, to say the least, that a lot of people are still up at this hour, but then again, he's always known this was going to be the case—

"So what do you feel like doing now?" It catches his attention, because the words are uttered by a voice he hasn't heard before; it's rough, a bit deep, but not too much, and it's not quite old, not quite young. He turns to look, spots them, sees them, and starts smiling.

There's a laugh, short and genuine. The answer is spoken with an accent, so he surmises the Italian language isn't this one's mother tongue.

"I feel like eating sushi, haha."

The man watches on as the shorter of the two snorts and shoots a mildly incredulous look at the one beside him. He can tell that he's not too happy with the answer he's received. "—you're in Germany and you want to eat sushi?!" An odd choice of food, the man thinks to himself, but the smile never leaves his face. He knows, he understands, what this all means now.

It all happens in a quick heartbeat, one stride, two strides, three, and he's already greeting them with a smile, gesturing with his right hand over to the buffet table that's full of untouched delicacies. "Have you tried the apple cake yet?" He takes note of the confused look on their faces, and almost laughs. Young people these days—was it wrong for an old man to want to start up a conversation now? Regardless, he goes on, "You simply must if you haven't. The cinnamon brings out a sweetness you would never be able to taste if you eat an apple alone." And this is something he adds as an afterthought, a second doubt, "It's my daughter's favorite."

There's an awkward silence, and it's the one with the scar on his chin that answers his smile with one of his own, "Thanks. We'll keep that in mind."

"My pleasure," his face looks a little sadder now, "Now if you'll excuse me—" There's no explanation that follows, but with a nod of his head, he turns around and takes his leave. His room is only a few minutes away from the ballroom, but the staircase that leads to the right floor made the travel seem longer than it is. Maybe it's just his imagination, or maybe it's him doing it on purpose. It's childish, too hopeful, but he knows, he knows he can't stretch out the distance between himself and the inevitable for way too long.

His mind is racing, and his heart beats that much faster. The smile he continues to wear slowly fades into a smaller one, and it doesn't even disappear when he clicks his door open and shuts it closed.

"That was a pretty interesting guy."

He hears it like an offhand comment, a second thought thrown into the table long after the man has retreated from them. Click, click, click, and there's a cigarette burning in between his lips. He's getting stares from the nearby guests, in disbelief, as if what he's doing is the most obscene thing anyone could do—young people these days, where are your manners? manners? fuck manners—but he ignores them, pretends not to notice. The last thing he wants to waste a few precious seconds on is pleasing a society that's built on pretension, a society that reminds him of what it used to be like back when it was all about doing what you didn't want to do just so someone wouldn't lose face.

Black and white keys, and an out of tune high G—a distant memory that's trying its best to break out of the corner it's trapped in, but he doesn't let it, won't let it, not when he has more important things to fuss about.

"I don't see what's so interesting about some old man—" here, he flicks the stray ashes away and breathes out the excess smoke "—besides, we're supposed to be looking out for the 'Ndrangheta Don. Don't get so careless, baseball freak." It almost comes out as a growl, a low order, but he keeps his temper in check. It's not really the time to revert back to strangling a guy whose laugh still annoys him, even if it's all for different reasons now. Scowling even more, he sends one last glance at where the old man disappeared to, and—

And then it's like a slow trainwreck to realization.

Fuuta's voice crashes inside his head (Twelfth Generation Don, Gokudera-nii; he's a kind gentleman, cherishes his famiglia, especially his daughter, so I don't see why you have to resort to something like this—), and all he can think of is shit, shit, shit, he let the target slip right through their fingers. A careless mistake, and he's not going to let himself let this go so easily, but right now, he's got someone to find, someone to chase.

The look on his face sharpens up, twists into concentration and the same old determination he always had, as he gives way to speed, zipping right down the direction where he saw the old man go to. He ignores the startled voice that called out after him, doesn't even slow down when he races up the stairs, skipping steps along the way. There's a collision with an unsuspecting tourist that almost happens, but doesn't, because he narrowly avoids it by cutting right beside her and ending up right ahead. No time to excuse himself, just keep running and running and running, head all the way down the hallway, don't stop to appreciate the miscellaneous picture frames dotted all over the walls, and then slow down.

Freeze.

It's the only room at the end of the corridor. It has to be the one.

Two minibombs are in his hand by the time he's near the door, and he's attaching them to the wooden surface, already alive and ready to explode. Who cares if this alerts half the entire cruise ship; they already accounted for a situation like this. So he moves all the way back, three, two, one, tick tick BOOM, and he breaks into a sprint, a gun pulled out and ready, kicking what's left of the door away.

Smoke and embers greet him first, but soon enough, he can make out the outline of a man by the window. It's another kodak moment of the infamous Cologne Cathedral, and it looks as if the man's way too preoccupied with looking at it than worrying about the barrel that's now aimed at him. Gokudera doesn't know why he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, or why he even bothers to spit out, "Don't move," when it's clear that there'll be no fights involved.

"I knew you were coming for me," and this is where he finally gets another look at the old man's smile, and his kind eyes, tired eyes, for a split-second, seem almost regretful. "Please tell her I'm sorry—" He doesn't understand it, but somehow hearing that from the old man wrings out a reflexive reaction, two bullets exploding from the gun in his hand. The soft thud of the body as it falls on the carpeted floor seems louder than the gunshots echoing in his ears, and for a moment there, he stands still, both eyes trained on the puddle of blood.

Sorry? I'm sorry? What the hell is this man going on about? "... —dera!" Who was he talking about? Why did the old man ask him to do something like that? Sorry? What the fuck—

"Gokudera—"

Yamamoto's voice finally drags him right back into reality. He's looking at the other man with a dazed look in his eyes, as if waking up from a daytime dream with no real ending, no real anything. "What—?" as if he really has the luxury or time to ask something like that right now. He doesn't get an answer beyond a shake of Yamamoto's head, and then he feels himself being led away from the old man's room, another mad dash, but this time, it's for the way out.

There are people screaming everywhere now.

It's a wave of frantic movement, of gotta get out gotta be safe gotta stay alive. Both Yamamoto and Gokudera are lucky enough to be able to avoid the inevitable bottleneck traffic, but that's the least of their worries now. Or well, it's the least of his worries anyway.

The stunt Gokudera pulled back there is sure enough to attract some unwanted attention, the kind that has guns and bullets in their hands and only one thing in their minds—kill them both. Avenge the boss. Get revenge. Get even. It's a neverending cycle, and he knows this, he's sure of this, because that's the reason why they're both here in the first place. Long story short: an attack that wiped out the Vongola branch situated in Cologne, Germany was what prompted Gokudera to insist that he repay the favor personally. And Yamamoto being Yamamoto? There was no way he was letting Gokudera go here on his own.

But he never really expected something like this would happen, not when Gokudera had an elaborate plan laid out.

Every detail was mapped out, right down to how they were going to find the Twelfth Don, the escape route they were going to take, any emergency exits, back-up plans—it was the whole deal. But there was a slip-up; they didn't expect their target to actually talk to them. Yamamoto didn't see it coming, Gokudera realized it a few minutes later, and thanks to that, Gokudera chucked their whole plan out the window. Acted on his own, his gut instincts; didn't think straight, didn't think all the way through.

Now they're stuck with the mess that move left behind.

He can hear Gokudera curse beside him when there are suddenly people yelling, "Over there!", followed by the quick thuds of feet sprinting across the hallway. A glance back, and he sees that there are about four people on their tail, each armed with a different kind of gun, ready to—

"Shit, get down!"

All four guns start firing a barrage of bullets at them, and it's miracle they haven't been hit yet. Gokudera already has a few of his dynamite sticks sparking, but he doesn't throw them not until they turn left on this corner and—there they go. Three sticks are headed for their pursuers, and it's like clockwork. TickticktickBOOM. It's all smoke and flames, accompanied by the usual blast of hot air and the unmistakable screams of the four men that are pretty much dead and dying by now.

Yamamoto feels his stomach sink a little. If he had a choice, he wouldn't have resorted to creating a trail of dead bodies to make their escape, but he knows better than to stop Gokudera when the man was already engaged in a fight. He's experienced the consequences enough to let him know what will happen if he even tried. There would have been a goofy smile on his face by now too, if he actually had the time to reminisce right now.

They manage reach the flight of stairs that leads up to the deck with no further interruptions. Or so he thought. As soon as they take the first few steps, there are bullets raining down at them from above. Rounds from a machine gun, so they had to act fast and separately. When Gokudera moves away from him to distract their shooter, Yamamoto pulls out his own gun for the first time tonight. Instead of targeting the man's head or chest like Gokudera told him to so many times during the target practice they had before they went through with this mission, he goes lower and aims for making the man lose his grip on the machine gun, or making him duck for cover, or maybe even both. It doesn't really matter to him, as long as the man doesn't end up dead in the end. So he fires, just a single round, and it looks like that made the man crouch down, but the second he peeks his head back out, Gokudera manages to take him out with a single shot through and through to the forehead.

Yamamoto had to look away by then.

There are three more guys at the top of the stairs waiting for them. Gokudera lights three bombs, one for each of them, no one's left out, and with a flick of his wrist, the bombs' backsides fire up and they're heading straight for their targets like tiny torpedoes. All three hit their mark—no one had the chance to run away—and the smoke has already cleared up by the time Yamamoto and Gokudera reached the top.

The bomber is the first to exit through the door, but before Yamamoto's able to follow, a wheezing sound from the right catches his attention. Curious, or maybe he's just born morbid and maybe a little masochistic, he shifts his line of view to get a better look, and he immediately wishes he hadn't. The sound is coming from a head that's burned beyond recognition, and the body is still twitching, trying to move. It takes him a minute longer to realize that the wheezing isn't just random noise, but a last minute prayer struggling to get out.

"A—ave—ma—maria..." Look away, he's telling himself, look away and move. "—pi—piena di—grazia—" Look away, look away, don't listen, and just get the hell away from here. Move, move, move. It isn't right for him to linger any longer than he already has, so he finally tears his eyes away and runs after Gokudera.

The other man is already waiting for him off to the side, near the railings. An irritated glare is what he first sees when he's close enough, and he can't help but let an apologetic smile play on his lips. "Sorry," is all he says, because he doesn't think it's appropriate to share what went on back there—at least, not now. Not when they aren't in the clear yet.

Gokudera doesn't look satisfied. "Don't fucking lag behind, asshole."

"I know, I know."

They hear more footsteps and yelling coming from where they came out, so that's their signal. Both of them climb over the railings and jump, falling straight into the Rhine River with two medium splashes.

It's a cold rush of water, and Yamamoto can feel the pain shock him right through, like kind of being stunned and knocked out at the same time. For a moment, it's like he can't breathe, but his brain kicks into override gear and cancels out the panic. He's kicking toward the surface now, and once his head is out, he takes in a deep breath and starts swimming. Gokudera's ahead of him already, and suddenly, there's a boyish spark in his eyes as he tries to beat the other man to where their speedboat is moored. It burns even brighter when Gokudera follows suit and swims faster—it's just like back when they were young, when they didn't do things like what they just did right now. For a moment there, they were able to let go.

But it's over the minute they got on the speedboat.

It doesn't take Gokudera too long to get it started. In the next few minutes, the motor's already humming, and they're headed for their designated pick-up point so they could be sent back home. A mission accomplished, but Yamamoto isn't too happy. Gokudera doesn't look too happy either.

It's an odd sort of vindictiveness, to try to discard every memory related to what they did and just keep themselves trapped in the present. This is more of Yamamoto's thing, but Gokudera finds himself more at ease when he just doesn't bother to remember. Even the silence that stretches out in between them is welcomed, but it doesn't last too long. It never does.

"That person, before he died, he started praying—"

Gokudera only snorts, but the tone in his voice isn't derisive, "That's why it took you so long to get to the deck? You stood there and watched him?"

"I looked away," and there's a sigh mixed in with these words, "It didn't feel right."

There's another stretch of silence, but it's punctuated by the harsh wind that clawed at their faces. It's getting colder, and maybe they should have taken a few seconds to dry themselves off a little, but there's no time now. No time to waste. It's way past quarter to one, so they're running a little late, but at least it's a straight path from where they are now. Just follow the Rhine up North, find two red lights, and—

"She'll never see her dad again."

The look on Yamamoto's face is solemn, quiet, and Gokudera finds himself hating the other man every time he sees it. Yes, ten years was long enough for him to get used to the annoying, oblivious baseball freak he always was; no, three years—especially after the Tenth's death—wasn't enough time to get used to the changes, the newly added expressions. He'd take the goofy smiles and the obnoxious back pounds over this any day.

"Think she'll hate us?"

A shrug. "That's how things work."

Yamamoto glances at him, mouth open, ready to say something, but nothing comes out. This whole thing—they did everything all for the sake of revenge—and while Yamamoto didn't directly kill anyone, he still feels a little responsible. Should have found another way, could have convinced Gokudera to back out of this, to run away before they got sucked right back in the cycle. But he didn't. And maybe it's turning him inside-out.

"This isn't going to stop anything," he finally says, but there's nothing backing it up.

Gokudera tilts his head down a little. There's a split-second where he looks almost sad, but it's gone the next moment. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even—" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "—it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."

And there's no arguing with that.

The next time someone speaks, it's Yamamoto again, but only because Gokudera suddenly changes their course. They're heading the wrong way.

"What are you doing—?"

"You wanted to know if she'll hate us, right?" Yamamoto only looks at him with a question mark written all over his face, so Gokudera keeps talking, keeps his hand steady on the wheel as he steered the boat to the nearest dock. "We'll know when we see her." He doesn't get an answer, doesn't need one, because the confused look on Yamamoto's face is enough. Truth be told, he doesn't really know where the hell they're going this time, but he figures it's better to worry about that later when—

"Why?"

Gokudera finally looks at him with kind eyes, tired eyes, and there's a smile on his face, "I have to tell her I'm sorry."

And Yamamoto could only smile back.

title. In Danger Of.
genre. General/Action.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth; bit of blood and death.
wordcount. 3923.
notes. Requested by nerdraeg. This prolly wasn't what you had in mind when you prompted me with cologne. Also, it's written in a different style -- tell me if it works? I personally don't think I'll be writing this way again, but I dunno, haha. LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN TOO WTF. Also, many thanks to the people who listened to me whine/bitch/moan about this the entire time I was writing it. You know who you are! ♥♥♥
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even—" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "—it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."

stargrind @ 2008-04-20T10:45:00

2008-04-20T17:51:49Z

☣against the sidelines.
PG13 | BUS RIDE | 945

Red light. Green light. Go GO GO.

Floor the pedal and race around the winding streets, twists and turns, left and right. Turn left keep going turn left and left and WATCH OUT—

(don't stop don't stop)

go go go. Push the limit. Break the chain. Don't let the numbers and letters of 100 km/h stop you because they're on your tail, right behind you. Hot off the press. Feel the adrenaline, smell the burn of rubber on asphalt, concrete, heartbeats stopping thanks to the ninety nine mistakes written all over your face. Street signs collide and you lose sight of where you're going; just keep running, just keep going faster fasterFASTER. Eyes on the road, where you're going, don't let them stray away because because because—

"Go—Gokudera-kun!" Hands on his head, clutching, clinging without a need for its dying will. Another screech comes when the car comes way too close from clipping another life, and he's shivering, scared out of his mind. There are diagonal lines in his eyes, the kind that says STOP. Slow down. Listen, please listen.

But the man behind the wheel never does ( nineteen years old, but still so unpredictable, stubborn, and a mess ). Never will. Not when he's all caught up in the high rush, high-speed motion on the get-go.

He spares a glance to the one strapped up beside him, worried dots in the corner of his eyes. "Yes, Tenth?" But the moment doesn't last too long, because he's got his focus snapped right back on what's ahead, what's behind. Cars are lined up along the rearview mirror, two of them, three, maybe even four; couldn't tell, couldn't care any less. He'll find a way to shake them off, he has to, needs to. "Please hold on," is the only thing that follows another attempt to cut corners, and this time, the car's side scrapes against a street-lamp, ash black paint getting chipped off by sparks and metal in the process.

A protest, a cry.

"Hii-hiiiiie! Is this really necessary?! Can't you slow down?!" The boy's all curled up into a small ball ( nineteen years old, nineteen, but still too young, growing up way too fast ), fingers intertwined while covering his eyes. But it doesn't matter how hard he tries not to look, because he's sneaking a peak every now and then, just to make sure they're still moving, still breathing, still alive. The beats inside his chest don't stop, thu-thump thu-thump, please stop, please stop.

I'm not ready to die here versus—

Trust me.
Listen.

(I'm scared, I'm scared.)

Don't be.
(Hold me.)

—I won't let you die.

"If I do, Tenth, they'll catch up to us—" no pain, no game "—but please don't worry—" I'm here, right here "—you're safe with me."

But that was seven years ago.

This time, it's a different tune, a different pair. Same story, same old flair.

He's got his hands on the steering wheel, a dying cigarette on his lips, and he's breathing in smoke and cancer every time he takes a second to look at what's ahead, what's behind. There are no worried dots in his eyes anymore, but lines that say I'm tired, jaded, faded, a little dull, but I'm still me, the asshole you remember, the one that will keep going. Going, just go. He's cutting corners, skipping stops, because, because, because they're after him again. Two of them, three, maybe even four—

"Tsuna wouldn't like what we're about to do." It's a welcomed distraction, from a man whose arms are crossed, looking straight ahead, never hiding away. Coming way too close to snuffing off that lady crossing the street doesn't even faze him, make him blink, but there's a protest, a cry, "Watch where you're going next time." Maybe he's just as tired, jaded, the same old person, but he knows the driver well enough. He'll slow down. He'll listen.

But he doesn't, just like before. Still a mess. Still the Guardian of Storm.

"Fuck that," and he sounds pissed off, angry. Eyebrows are knitted together in one hundred percent concentration, because he can't skip a beat, waste a second of racing around twisted streets. But there's the sound of bang bang BANG whizzing past them, and it draws out a string of curses, because he knows, he knows this is the unexpected punchline to your everyday tragedy. "Shit, those assholes—"

Another cut off, but it's plain and simple this time. "Yeah."

Green eyes meet gold, and it's an unspoken kind of conversation, because there's the acknowledgement in their gaze. I know, I know. He pulls out a gun from the glove compartment, keeping one hand on the wheel, keeping it steady. The windows are slowly being rolled down, and he can feel the wind hit his skin—a high speed chase gone wrong, but they'll flow with it. That's how they always go. "You know how to shoot?"

Yamamoto doesn't even grace it with an answer.

"For Tsuna, right?"

There's a smirk clinging to Gokudera's lips.

"For the Tenth."

One foot steps on the breaks, and you can already hear the tires screeching as rubber burns and leaves a mark on the concrete. It's an angry noise, a defiant glare, and you know all it says is fucking bring it on. Two cars almost pass by, but you don't miss a beat, bullets already firing, hitting bullseyes, dead and center. The same could be said for the other side, the other piece, and it's like he fell right into your rhythm, matching your pace.

It doesn't get any better than this.

Don't stop don't stop.

title. Against the Sidelines.
genre. General.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Spoilers for Tsuna; watch out for Gokudera's mouth.
wordcount. 945.
notes. For final & centric. I love you guys, infinity x whatev u say. ♥♥♥
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. Red light. Green light. Go go GO. Don't stop don't stop.

stargrind @ 2008-03-15T01:52:00

2008-03-15T08:54:51Z

☣loose ends.
PG | REQUEST | 1035

It's been a long while ( a damn long while ) since lady luck smiled at him with those pretty little lips & ice cold eyes. She hasn't looked his way ever since his sky bid the stars goodbye & fell ( fall, fallen, falling ) with boneless wings & featherless dust. A constant miscalculation on his part, but it was his fault. His fault. He'll never get over it. But like a little kid, he finds himself thinking sometimes, that maybe, maybe, she'll come back someday. That maybe she'll remember what it's like to see him smile & come back with open arms & give him the good things in life again, the things he'll never ever have again. & it's that part that gets him, 'cause he knows she won't. He knows she never will.

So it's hello madam nicotine, how are you today? Let's light you up & let you take my breath away --

Or some shit like that.

Rhyming's for the poetic & weary, and he's none of that & he knows it, but his fingers are doing it for him & soon enough there's a living fag stick in between his lips. He breathes in the taste of smokin' hot strawberry & mint, feels the cold snap of something sweet in his mouth, & it's almost refreshing. It's his quick-fix cure whenever his nerves act up, a habit that he finds real hard to get rid of, 'cause it's always been what he went for whenever he needs to do something the most. Either that or kill, but the Tenth wouldn't want that. Even after everything they had been through, it was the Tenth who stayed the same, the Tenth who grew up but didn't, 'cause he didn't want them to kill, he never wanted them to kill.

He's in too deep to realize that there's a hand reaching out for his shoulder ( it's so frail & thin & it feels like you're about to break ), so when it makes contact, he reacts so fast that a gun's already pulled out the minute he's facing a familiar face. There's a smile, a smile so tired & dead that it makes him falter so easily, makes him lose the tension on his shoulders & let the hand holding the gun drop uselessly to his side.

"You're finally here," he says, & it's like a foreign phrase on the tip of his tongue, 'cause here is somewhere they've been at before. Here is where they always have been -- just in a whole different context, a whole different time. The past meets the future, while the future meets the past. It's just like those fairytales kids would hear during bedtime & see in their dreams, only it's happening to them right now, & it's pretty fucking real. His mind's still reeling sometimes, 'cause it gets harder to believe when everything up until now happened 'cause of his luck, his lack of chance.

"Were you waiting too long?" It's just like him to start up a conversation like that, and Gokudera's suddenly reminded how much he didn't like how Yamamoto sounded nowadays. Tired, sad, dead, gone -- he's just like him, just like him. He's always been good at picking up little things like that, & he knows none of them sound the same anymore. But Yamamoto's trying, & Gokudera knows he is, but when he's trying to smile, Gokudera knows it's one that's been stretched too thin, ready to break, just like him, just like him. "Haha, I wasn't expecting to find you here though."

& this is enough to make him snap back to reality.

They're standing right in front of a structure that's ten floors tall, but the one Gokudera's interested in right now is right there in front of them. He's been watching him ever since he got here, ever since his chance to tell the Tenth everything he wants to know slipped right through his fingers, 'cause in his head, this is the only way he can repay for all his mistakes. The gun feels cold in his hand, & it's like he's holding the bleeding, dying, fading body again. He almost lets go, but he doesn't, his grip tightening, locked & ready to pounce. But the hand on his shoulder stops him before he can even make the first move.

"Don't," & it's like his whole world is breaking into pieces again, "Tsuna wouldn't want that."

"But he's right there." He's right there --
( it's a motherfucking riot that the kid he's trying to kill had hair that burned just like the Tenth's flame )
-- but Yamamoto's talking again.

"You can't mess with the past anymore."

"I --" Don't do this to me, don't do this to me. He took my sky right in front of my eyes & left me broken & dying -- maybe I'm already dead, maybe I'm still alive ( I don't know anymore & I don't care ) but I stopped caring. All I want to do, all I want to live for is the day this kid dies, with his blood on my hands 'cause my finger pulled the trigger. No hesitation, no backing down, so don't do this to me. Don't let them take my sky again. "-- don't know."

"You're messed up & you're broken. You're sick of how things are, how things ended. But that's no excuse to give in," to give up on the day lady luck will come back & start smiling at you again, "'cause there's still time, & maybe all we have to do is wait." The sky's still alive, he's still alive, & you know that. "You know we'll see him again, 'cause he'll come back. He'll come back to us," & somehow that's enough. That's enough for now. There's another dead smile on Yamamoto's face, but his words are genuine. Gokudera's looking at him without saying anything else, but his grip on the gun slackens & it's falling on the concrete. It clicks & clatters, but it doesn't fire.

It was never loaded to begin with.

'cause Gokudera knows. Gokudera knows the Tenth wouldn't want that.

title. Loose Ends.
genre. General.
rating. PG.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Spoilers for TYL!Arc.
wordcount. 1035.
notes. Written right after seeing Episode 74. This one's also for levels, & YES I'LL GET RIGHT BACK TO WRITING YR OTHER FIC. alkfjalkfj. This was just. Way easier to write. But yeah, uh, the idea came up during one night 'cause like. Just what were their older selves up to the minute they got sent back to the past? Logical step for Gokudera is to kill a certain someone, right? RIGHT?!
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. It's a what if game -- what if older!Gokudera wants to kill Irie Shouichi of the present right now?

stargrind @ 2008-02-15T11:15:00

2008-02-15T19:15:35Z

☣in sequence.
G | FEB 14 | 1139

The palpitations of a twisted heart keep on growing & growing, thump thump thumping like it's the end of the world, the end of line, the end of this beat & melody I'd like to call you & I. Gokudera has never seen the streetlights look so imposing, as if it's about to swallow him whole & alive, in one piece & maybe in pieces, but that doesn't sound so bad right now. Cigarette smoke & cherry filtered ash coat the night's air as he breathes in & out rhythmically, feeling the rush of nicotine on his tongue. It tastes like home, of the lack of dying wills & the Vongola's Tenth Gen., of his father & that damn piano with an out of tune high G, of all the lies~~truths~~ that told him he's worth just as much as yesterday's news. $0.51 & maybe even none.

Nobody wants to have what they already saw, nobody wants to have something that's so raw & used & useless -- this, he knows. This, he lives with every day & night, every night & day, every time his eyes close & open to greet a brand new hour, brand new week, same old routine, same old days. It's like a cocktail made for self-pity, self-doubt, & everything in between, but he'd have none of that -- wouldn't drink it even if you say it's for him & him alone, 'cause the world doesn't need another loser. & he doesn't want to be one, either, 'cause what kind of right hand man would he be then?

There's a pause in his tracks & he's blowing out smoke quietly, the cancer stick slowly dying, but his lips keep it alive. No good, no good; it used to belong to a boy who never looks up 'cause he has nothing to look forward to, a boy who never looks at you 'cause he never has anything brilliant to say, a boy who's short of being amazing until something unexpected came around & started talking about bullets with special powers, the kind that grants you anything you wish for, as long as in death, you have only one thing in mind, & that's regret & nothing more. A will to do the impossible, to go against the odds, & reach for the stars 'cause you'll get nowhere if you stay grounded.

A lesson learned through tough love.

But the Tenth, Gokudera thinks, fingers dropping the now useless cigarette to kiss the concrete & meet its fate by the tip of his shoe, the Tenth is an amazing person. Like the sky above, limitless, passionate, always blue yet so vibrant, never dies, never goes away, always there, always constant, someone you could count on, someone that'd never leave, & someone that'd accept the you that is you & not the me that isn't me. & this, he continues on, with a smile on his face, the kind that's rare to see, is all I really need.

But then, there's another pause, & he's got a black mobile on one hand a second later, fingers flipping it open out of habit. There's a message, Can you come over? & Gokudera's looking at who it came from & kind of doubles over. From the Tenth? & there's no hesitation. Whenever the Tenth needs him, he's there, in a split-second, in a heartbeat. No explanations needed, no questions asked. There's always a time for those later, even though that time rarely ever comes, but Gokudera doesn't mind, never minds. If it's the Tenth, he'd do anything -- swim across the Atlantic Ocean, move a mountain, manipulate the stars & maybe even find a way to build him the robot he always wanted to have.

Someday, someday.

& it's this exact submission, this willingness to do anything & everything, that freaks Tsuna out a little, 'cause this -- he doesn't deserve something like this. All he really is, is just your typical boy next door, nothing special, nothing extraordinary. He lives & breathes & struggles to get by like the next person, with his head hung low, shoulders slumped, & eyes never looking up. A regular boy, with a title shoved on him like a ton of bricks with no return address ( he doesn't want it, doesn't want it, doesn't want it, but no one ever listens to the boy next door, right? ), & he can't help but feel a little overwhelmed sometimes.

'cause all he really wants to do, is live. Just live. Live life like he's supposed to, like regular boys with no names are supposed to. Not like this. Not with flames of dying wills & bullets that trigger him to regret things he'll never ever get to do, things he'll never ever get to say--

Sometimes he dreams of a time where it used to be him against everyone else. No good Tsuna versus the rest of the world. He flinches & looks down & does whatever they want him to do, 'cause that's what no good Tsuna's do. But now's a different tune, a different story, 'cause now it's not just him alone, but his friends & himself against everyone else. Friends? ( Friends. ) It feels weird as he rolls it around on the tip of his tongue, 'cause he's never had friends before any of this & he's not used to it yet. But it feels nice. Like a kind of warm feeling in your guts & it makes him smile.

"But friends," Tsuna whispers to himself, so he can hear it & believe, "friends are amazing like that. They could be like a hurricane of mass destruction, like the wind at your face, like the sand that coils around your feet, & like the sky above ( so limitless, passionate, always blue yet so vibrant -- ), but nothing can compare. They're all that & so much more & even beyond that. & this," there's a pause in his words, as he hears the doorbell ringing & the all too familiar voice calling out a name that isn't his, but still all about him.

"Tenth! Is something the matter?"

"N-no . . ."

"Then what's wrong, Tenth?"

"W-we got interrupted a while ago, so I-I was just wondering if you wanted to finish the watermelon you brought -- I mean, it's understandable if you don't want to & that's okay but I was just thinking it'd be nice & I mean you don't have to & --" The smile on Gokudera's face shuts him up & he's looking at him with most oblivious face, but then, he's smiling too.

"That'd be nice, Tenth. I'd like that."

& this, Tsuna thinks, as he lets Gokudera inside the house & as they both head for the kitchen, is all I really need.

title. In Sequence.
genre. Fluff.
rating. G.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Sawada Tsunayoshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. EXTREME SAP. I mean what. & also the lack of 'and' 'cause I got too lazy.
wordcount. 1139.
notes. For the Tenth/final. ♥ Belated Valentine's Day gift. ilu infinity x whatev u say.
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. It's all they really need.