Reborn Drabble (Many Returns)
Ah, finally back at school for summer session. I can't wait.
Title: Many Returns
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Pairing: 8059
Rating: G
Notes: A weird, short piece that ends very fluffily.
L. Many Returns
A short sound of the door in the darkness. A figure moves around the coffee table like they've done it so many times they can do it in their sleep. Keys drop into the bowl in the kitchen; the brief light of the moon catches a glimpse of the scar on his chin. A lone cup of cold tea sits solitary on the spotless kitchen counter. Tanned hands find it, bring it close as if it were still warm, lifting it to chapped lips. The scar disappears behind the shadow of soft gulps; black-socked feet numbing with the feel of the kitchen tiles. A clink of the sword hefted against his back, and then the mug is washed and returned to the drying rack.
It is warmer in the hall. Slacks pull, flap past the heater vent on their way to the room at the end. Here the first light turns on to illuminate the bathroom where a black-suited figure is silhouetted against the mirror for a second before the door closes. Katana set carefully aside in favor of the shower, the water switches on noisily in the silence. Steam rises from the spotless porcelain; the pains of the day fade away, the gunsmoke and callouses. Yamamoto shakes out his mop of unruly black hair, stretches his arms under the spray of hot water, thoughts drifting away from work. Something fruity and girlish-scented fills the air. Bubbles rise from the shampoo and soap. There is no time for a bath - he has to get all the sleep he can tonight.
Abruptly the sound ceases as he turns off the faucet. Damp feet pad over to the basket, slip on the offered clean underwear and pajamas. He brushes his teeth, then shuts off the light.
Bare feet pad to the second to last door on the left. Hands turn the knob; Kintoki jingles where it wobbles, then finally rests against the table. The moon peeks into the room through the blinds, before disappearing again: it rushes over the lump on the bed hidden under a blue checkered comforter, fingers and the top of a silvery head the only visible part of the person underneath.
Despite the long flight back and the assignment itself, lips tug gently upward. Big hands pull back the top right corner of the comforter, sitting on the bed in one swift movement. The bed gives a little; the silver head moves up to expose forehead and barely-opened eyes, even as hands clutch the comforter closer to avoid the cooler air inside his little cocoon of warmth. Gokudera blinks at the clock on the nightstand, then at the cellphone next to it (no green blinking, no messages), then finally up at the other who's just looking back at him, still smiling faintly. A rustle of bedsheets, and then Yamamoto is sliding his feet home away from the hardwood floors and into his spot on the right side of the bed. Gokudera shifts backwards in response, sleepily letting the other share his nest.
"Mmm back," comes the sleepy comment.
"Yeah."
"Mmm cold."
"Want me to close the window?"
Gokudera's answer is to reach out clumsily, fingers latching on the other's shirtsleeve. Yamamoto pauses in his snuggling as the other scoots closer, burying head in shoulder like they've done it a million times before, arms coming around to pull Yamamoto in. He gets a mouthful of silvery hair as Gokudera tucks his head under his chin, nose nuzzling his collarbone. Hands pull up the comforter in tandem, and then it is silent again, the watery moon flowing over the two still lumps under the covers.
"Mmm feet cold," comes the complaint.
"Sorry."
"Mmm...," and Gokudera stretches his limbs one last time before latching around Yamamoto for good. It's a thoughtful kind of half-awake grunt Yamamoto associates with Welcome back, idiot every time he returns from one of his midnight missions. In response he stretches out his legs and arms, tucks the edge of the covers securely in, as the dreamless darkness takes him deeper into the warmth of the one worried, waiting - his reason.
The entire point of this fic? The cold-feet thing. I'm not kidding; I'm just saying I could see it seriously happening.
Title: Many Returns
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Pairing: 8059
Rating: G
Notes: A weird, short piece that ends very fluffily.
L. Many Returns
A short sound of the door in the darkness. A figure moves around the coffee table like they've done it so many times they can do it in their sleep. Keys drop into the bowl in the kitchen; the brief light of the moon catches a glimpse of the scar on his chin. A lone cup of cold tea sits solitary on the spotless kitchen counter. Tanned hands find it, bring it close as if it were still warm, lifting it to chapped lips. The scar disappears behind the shadow of soft gulps; black-socked feet numbing with the feel of the kitchen tiles. A clink of the sword hefted against his back, and then the mug is washed and returned to the drying rack.
It is warmer in the hall. Slacks pull, flap past the heater vent on their way to the room at the end. Here the first light turns on to illuminate the bathroom where a black-suited figure is silhouetted against the mirror for a second before the door closes. Katana set carefully aside in favor of the shower, the water switches on noisily in the silence. Steam rises from the spotless porcelain; the pains of the day fade away, the gunsmoke and callouses. Yamamoto shakes out his mop of unruly black hair, stretches his arms under the spray of hot water, thoughts drifting away from work. Something fruity and girlish-scented fills the air. Bubbles rise from the shampoo and soap. There is no time for a bath - he has to get all the sleep he can tonight.
Abruptly the sound ceases as he turns off the faucet. Damp feet pad over to the basket, slip on the offered clean underwear and pajamas. He brushes his teeth, then shuts off the light.
Bare feet pad to the second to last door on the left. Hands turn the knob; Kintoki jingles where it wobbles, then finally rests against the table. The moon peeks into the room through the blinds, before disappearing again: it rushes over the lump on the bed hidden under a blue checkered comforter, fingers and the top of a silvery head the only visible part of the person underneath.
Despite the long flight back and the assignment itself, lips tug gently upward. Big hands pull back the top right corner of the comforter, sitting on the bed in one swift movement. The bed gives a little; the silver head moves up to expose forehead and barely-opened eyes, even as hands clutch the comforter closer to avoid the cooler air inside his little cocoon of warmth. Gokudera blinks at the clock on the nightstand, then at the cellphone next to it (no green blinking, no messages), then finally up at the other who's just looking back at him, still smiling faintly. A rustle of bedsheets, and then Yamamoto is sliding his feet home away from the hardwood floors and into his spot on the right side of the bed. Gokudera shifts backwards in response, sleepily letting the other share his nest.
"Mmm back," comes the sleepy comment.
"Yeah."
"Mmm cold."
"Want me to close the window?"
Gokudera's answer is to reach out clumsily, fingers latching on the other's shirtsleeve. Yamamoto pauses in his snuggling as the other scoots closer, burying head in shoulder like they've done it a million times before, arms coming around to pull Yamamoto in. He gets a mouthful of silvery hair as Gokudera tucks his head under his chin, nose nuzzling his collarbone. Hands pull up the comforter in tandem, and then it is silent again, the watery moon flowing over the two still lumps under the covers.
"Mmm feet cold," comes the complaint.
"Sorry."
"Mmm...," and Gokudera stretches his limbs one last time before latching around Yamamoto for good. It's a thoughtful kind of half-awake grunt Yamamoto associates with Welcome back, idiot every time he returns from one of his midnight missions. In response he stretches out his legs and arms, tucks the edge of the covers securely in, as the dreamless darkness takes him deeper into the warmth of the one worried, waiting - his reason.
The entire point of this fic? The cold-feet thing. I'm not kidding; I'm just saying I could see it seriously happening.