INCOMPLETE.
Who: Yamamoto Takeshi (kenspeck), Eko Hoshunin (temerate).
What: Oh, Yamamoto. Getting himself into trouble again.
Where: Somewhere around the city.
When: Backdated to a few days ago?
Sometimes, Yamamoto had a really bad habit of doing things that he probably shouldn't have been doing.
Now was one of those times.
Of course, he didn't typically enter potentially dangerous situations on purpose. Not usually, anyway. He just wasn't too keen on paying close attention to the small little details that often turned an innocent little visit into something possibly fatal. And, unlike Gokudera, he really didn't see a problem with the man with the strange eyes. It was just another game, right. A different game from the mafia one, yeah, but it was game, and besides, he'd always been very capable when it came to taking care of himself.
And the man had said he'd needed help, hadn't he? Yamamoto wasn't sure if that was all part of the game, too, or if he really actually needed assistance, but he'd figure that out later. For now, he stood, leaning against the rounded stone of the fountain with his bat resting limply in his hand as he waited. The smooth wood wasn't clutched between his fingers, but was rather leaning more against the fountain itself for support than being held up by its owner.
He hadn't brought it because he needed it, after all. He brought it because he didn't go anywhere without it.
It might have been that little instinctive measure that settled deep in the back of his brain, deep in the pit of his gut, that forced him to do it, that kicked in when he needed it most, when he wasn't paying enough attention to keep himself from getting hurt. Or it just might have been because Yamamoto never really felt complete unless he had some form of a bat in his hand.
Granted, it was a bat that turned into a katana, but it was a bat, nonetheless.
But he wasn't thinking about using it against anyone, wasn't thinking that he'd ever need it for anything other than hitting particularly round objects with it (that often went through windows). He was as calm as he ever was, smiling warmly at nothing in particular, with brown eyes screwed up toward the darkening skies stretched above his head. Calm, and uncharacteristically quiet, waiting because he had nothing else to do, and because he had said he would.
Yamamoto also had the terrible habit of not going back on his word.
( -- even when he should have. )
What: Oh, Yamamoto. Getting himself into trouble again.
Where: Somewhere around the city.
When: Backdated to a few days ago?
Sometimes, Yamamoto had a really bad habit of doing things that he probably shouldn't have been doing.
Now was one of those times.
Of course, he didn't typically enter potentially dangerous situations on purpose. Not usually, anyway. He just wasn't too keen on paying close attention to the small little details that often turned an innocent little visit into something possibly fatal. And, unlike Gokudera, he really didn't see a problem with the man with the strange eyes. It was just another game, right. A different game from the mafia one, yeah, but it was game, and besides, he'd always been very capable when it came to taking care of himself.
And the man had said he'd needed help, hadn't he? Yamamoto wasn't sure if that was all part of the game, too, or if he really actually needed assistance, but he'd figure that out later. For now, he stood, leaning against the rounded stone of the fountain with his bat resting limply in his hand as he waited. The smooth wood wasn't clutched between his fingers, but was rather leaning more against the fountain itself for support than being held up by its owner.
He hadn't brought it because he needed it, after all. He brought it because he didn't go anywhere without it.
It might have been that little instinctive measure that settled deep in the back of his brain, deep in the pit of his gut, that forced him to do it, that kicked in when he needed it most, when he wasn't paying enough attention to keep himself from getting hurt. Or it just might have been because Yamamoto never really felt complete unless he had some form of a bat in his hand.
Granted, it was a bat that turned into a katana, but it was a bat, nonetheless.
But he wasn't thinking about using it against anyone, wasn't thinking that he'd ever need it for anything other than hitting particularly round objects with it (that often went through windows). He was as calm as he ever was, smiling warmly at nothing in particular, with brown eyes screwed up toward the darkening skies stretched above his head. Calm, and uncharacteristically quiet, waiting because he had nothing else to do, and because he had said he would.
Yamamoto also had the terrible habit of not going back on his word.
( -- even when he should have. )