Reborn fic: "Purge"
Title: Purge
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 805927 (or 802759, 592780, 598027 or however you like it)
Rating: R
Notes: A quick break from "Dog", which is currently undergoing some uh, major reformatting. Gokudera knows a lot of things intimately, but none more than dying slowly in the state of emotionlessness. Comes complete with angsty!30YL!Gokudera. A big thank you to artillie for looking this over for me.
AND I FORGOT. "Shouichi" refers to Sawada Shouichi, my made-up Tsuna's oldest son.
Purge (2009.03.18)
Somebody moans in the dark that isn't him, and the sound drifts through shuddered pants and the bare scrape of skin against skin. He is attacked from above and below - "attacked" is the right word, because there is no other description for the invasion above and the slick temptation below. He is sandwiched between two evil men who have turned his life upside down, one after the other. The remnants float before his eyes and taunts him, waving its shredded edges like a ghost.
He laughs against Tsuna's shoulder, and his boss doesn't hesitate to smile back. It's nothing, he'll say later. But as always, Yamamoto will be curled up on the other side of him, and Gokudera knows he never lets a question slip by without an answer.
--------------
"You could just not go." Ryohei's voice sounds faintly puzzled. "It's all the way in Rio and while you were involved ten years ago, there's no reason to head down there personally this time."
Gokudera shuts the trunk of the car and then gives the shiny black paint an even look. "I'm going," he says simply, and rounds the corner to reach for the driver's door -
- Ryohei's hand is on the glass window, preventing the door from opening any farther. Gokudera can push against that tension, just like he's forced so many negotiations, but Ryohei is also a Guardian, and if anything else that deserves respect. So he raises his eyes to ask wordlessly if Ryohei has any other information to give.
"It's Shouichi's birthday next week," the other Guardian tells him with an embarrassed, practically pleading smile.
Gokudera studies Ryohei's posture. It is casual on the outside, but there is a strain in those shoulders that speaks of something more serious, more worrying. This is the Vongola's head correspondent at work - connecting the gears that make up the machine, drawing the lines between key players in every event, every minor happening in the mafia world. Gokudera is no exception; he holds the physical power in the family, the factories and the contracts, the police informants and the underground routes.
He does not mind the subtle manipulation. There is no one else to do it anymore, after all.
He can tell Ryohei is about to open his mouth and say something Yamamoto-stupid like "You know you're one of the only ones he actually listens to." But his mind neatly wraps up the decision before that can happen. "I will be back before then," he promises out loud, but when Ryohei's hand doesn't budge, he adds neutrally, "Anything else?"
The other Guardian tilts his head a little in the other direction, taking him in, the corners of that mouth turned down. That too is a new face, much like Gokudera's patience, a veil he wears instead of the heart on his sleeve of days now past. Gokudera never thought it'd affect him, but it does now that he's wobbling through life without his crutches, grasping blindly only at the things that once made him feel real and human.
He tilts his head too, mocking Ryohei schoolboy-fashion. A little of the smile returns to Ryohei, Gokudera can see it in those old eyes - but not enough. "You should eat," he admonishes finally, gruff as Ryohei finally lets him climb into his car. He remembers how much Ryohei used to shovel down at Yamamoto-san's place ten years ago.
Or was it twelve? Or fifteen? Or twenty? It had to be before his eyesight started going from working in the lab all day, peering into the glass that separated the testing room from the control panel, recording countless bomb explosions into the same lab book Yamamoto used to doodle on in high school.
The consequences of his work appear in the form of the glasses he slid over his nose. Ryohei shuts the door, smiling - but it's been a good twenty-five since they were in high school, and now Gokudera can read the traces of hesitation in those smile lines, the hint of echoed fear in his counterpart's eyes.
Ryohei knocks twice on the window and obligingly Gokudera rolls it down. "You too," Ryohei teases with more fondness in his voice. Gokudera lets him clap him on the shoulder. "You look like a skeleton these days."
The words freeze the air for a moment like an icy iron fist closing all around them, and then easing. Ryohei's smile is truly apologetic this time. Gokudera closes the window after they exchange final assignment details, and then he is pulling away from headquarters, the rising sun reflecting dizzily in the windshield.
Ryohei's form diminishes quickly in the rear view mirror. His face has turned inward again in that way that tells Gokudera he is contemplating something deep (or deep enough for a jock) and not too happy. Some part of Gokudera doesn't like the way the other Guardian slouches up the stairs, a little less proud than they were twenty or so years ago. The other side of him says he deserves it. The survivors all do.
And then trees obscure his vision of headquarters with its marble steps out front, and Ryohei is unceremoniously lost to view. The sight doesn't dishearten Gokudera, though - his heart remains there, where it had chosen to stay. Ryohei knows that as well as anybody in the living world does.
Gokudera will be back for it. Soon.
--------------
"No," he breathes raggedly into the air. His hands are trapped behind him, he is blindfolded. Skin meets his lips and automatically his tongue goes out to taste - a hand with long fingers and nails bitten halfway down to the pink. Yamamoto.
The other hand glides past his ribs, gaining momentum. As a wordless question the touch lightens until it is barely petting his hipbone, lifting until only one finger is still there, drawing vertical lines gently but firmly. Gokudera repeats the word, strains at his bonds, struggles to free himself even when he is jerked roughly back, head snapping into the safety of a pillow, and a mouth hungrily covers his.
The hand that closes around him in the end is not Yamamoto's - it is smaller, with slender fingers. Gokudera moans encouragement, even as his hands are freed and he tosses the blindfold carelessly away. The room is blue and white and black, colorless except for the lust that blurs in Yamamoto's eyes before he sweeps down and nips at one of Gokudera's nipples. Gokudera jumps.
He bites and Gokudera shouts.
The hand stroking him is replaced by a mouth. He doesn't need to look down to know what it looks like - but he does anyway, eyes drawn to the sight of pert lips swallowing, throat constricting around him. He screams and the scene stops like someone's hit a pause button, before Gokudera is clawing at the sheets, body twisting, feet curling -
- it's a promise.
---------
"Hmm," Hibari grunts, unimpressed by the information in front of him. But in the end he signs it anyway and hands it over.
And then they throw their coats and ties asidein favor of their weapons: dynamite for Gokudera, tonfas for Hibari. It was unsurprising how little things have changed from when they were stupid kids, fighting for a cause none of them truly understood (not even Gokudera). Now they knew for sure what they were protecting - not a man but a system. A legacy.
Hibari retreats briefly, allowing the space, allowing Gokudera's pride. On the other hand Gokudera doesn't disappoint; the dynamite is already falling, timed perfectly, blasting to pieces in the air. Gokudera darts forward -
- a tonfa slices through the smoke, barely missing his left temple. Hibari's mouth is a mask of grinning death as they clash, Gokudera forgoing dynamite for fists. He strikes out high and low, just like he's learned from years on the street. One actually hits, but Hibari doesn't even pause before the tonfa fires down on his shoulder. Gokudera feels the sensation vibrate through his whole body, blindingly white. It fades after a few seconds; Hibari had been holding back on that strike.
The break apart again, breathing a little harder this time. Greetings are over.
They've sparred and observed each other enough so that there's a certain amount they can predict in each other's moves. Gokudera entertains that shadow of Hibari for a second, mind rapidly calculating counters, dodges - but Hibari is already advancing, focused and deadly, smiling even - and Gokudera leans in too, throwing himself into the conflict.
They pass and twist and one point, Gokudera actually has to take out the little blade he and the two others learned how to use when they first formally entered the family. Hibari's inhumanly bloodthirsty delight grows at the sight of this; Gokudera sheaths it back into his arm in the end. Their practice sessions were never meant to be that serious.
Later the two find each other across a table again, sifting wordlessly through documents. Gokudera surreptitiously takes pictures of most of them, as it is probably the only time he will ever see physical evidence of the work Hibari does. On the other hand Hibari lets him, face half-thoughtful, half-calculating over the rims of his glasses.
Gokudera allows himself to wonder, just for a moment, how weak Hibari thinks he is. How vulnerable he is to have let his fangs break, the edge of his bite splintered to this point. Even out of all the remaining Guardians, Gokudera is the only one who has to wear contacts or glasses all the time.
"You're done," Hibari gathers up the papers abruptly. It is barely enough information for Gokudera to piece together what the other Guardian's been up to for the last month. All he sees these days of his fellow Guardians are shadows and fleeting glances. He knows where they all are, of course, he is the Eleventh in all but name - but sometimes he wishes the tragedy brought them together instead of apart.
Those kinds of stories were never true. And it is a selfish thought anyway, he berates himself.
He squints into the darkness outside of the circle of lamplight. Hibari is staring out the window at the moon that hangs full over the silhouette of rolling hills. Somewhere in the night, a canary sings.
"Are you going tomorrow?" Gokudera asks.
A pause. And then: "No."
Gokudera ponders that. There are only three reasons Hibari might not go to Shouichi's birthday celebration tomorrow. At least it isn't a long list to go through; Gokudera is able to come up with the correct answer on the first try.
"Is she going too?" He remembers Dino's daughter from the last time he was invited over to the Chiavarone by nobody other than Hibari himself. Brunette and brown-eyed, she resembles her unknown mother more than Dino's blond and blue-eyed looks. Certainly that kind of personal information about Hibari had never passed through Gokudera's hands, and Dino had never been one to tell whether or not she had been murdered by Dino's own lover.
"I don't know," Hibari murmurs finally. "Perhaps not."
The questions spiral into the night. Gokudera sits back, watching the reflection of the moon in his tea ripple. When he was younger, he never understood Hibari's ferocity, his bloodthirstiness. He never comprehended what motives drove the man other than the one that demanded retribution for wrongs done unto himself, and even that was a stretch. By the time he understood that much about Hibari, Tsuna had already changed him so completely, and Yamamoto had cherished him so deeply...
... now, they are on the same face of the coin. The system - this Family - has given and taken away so many times it is almost routine now, the purge of emotions. Feelings have blunted to a point where they register but don't quite reach anymore. While they had come from so many interests, so many angles - in the end, they've all been beaten into the same mold of sad old man.
When he sees Hibari smiling bitterly at the view, Gokudera unconsciously does the same.
------------
It is so easy, even after all these years. Tsuna squirms when he is caressed, arches when he is licked, and jerks when he is tickled. Right now Yamamoto is having the time of his life with the last one, practically giggling as Tsuna fights to escape those so-called "Claws of Doom".
Gokudera impulsively decides to end it right there, tugging Tsuna's pajama pants off in one go. The tension switches immediately from play to passion. Yamamoto's hands wander more purposefully now, smoothing down hips and thighs, stroking. Tsuna hums, a comforted sound, and leans into the touch.
In tandem it seems, Yamamoto and Gokudera's arms cross, binding the three of them together as one, inseparable unit. No start or finish of limbs or heads or pleasure. No numbers, no reality - only the wild, soaring enthusiasm to discover more about each other.
Teeth scrape along the edge, lined by the smear of lips and saliva. Tsuna muffles a whimper into the pillow. Gokudera rises, hands worshipping as Yamamoto guides him down as if blind, to taste more. Once he would have been disgusted, but now he takes advantage of the quiet simply to feel his own quickening pulse, his own flash of heady desire -
- and slowly, like descending from a cloud, they come down sleepily. In life, in sleep, in death they trust. Even if the world swallows them whole one by one, these memories alone will prove they were once human.
--------------
"Hmm," Mukuro muses, much as Hibari had. In the end he hands over the documents he'd been shown on Gokudera's palm pilot, and meet his eyes for the first time that day. "Interesting. But you still haven't given me a reason to get involved."
A cloudless day in spring. People mill about in semi-formal attire, chatting about their latest business prospects without any fear of repercussion. Gokudera turns his attention away from the mob of well-wishes surrounding Sawada Shouichi, and takes another gulp from his glass. The champagne turns to acid as it bubbles down his throat.
Champagne. For celebrations.
A mere seventy kilometers away, somebody is standing in front of Dino Chiavarone's grave.
"It doesn't need a reason. Just that it's suspicious enough Hibari would take a glance at it personally." Gokudera's eyes picks out Ryohei, watching from his vantage point on the top of the stairs. "The numbers were never correct, from what the reports say."
Mukuro's - no, Chrome's - dark gaze peers knowingly up at him. "Based on his report?" she prompts simply, and he doesn't hesitate to nod. They both know the context; they are, in fact, probably the two Guardians who are in most contact with each other now, despite Ryohei's quarters at the mansion being right next to Gokudera's own. But every day, he spends more time with the Varia, Gokudera knows he has a room there too, and the reminder gives the cold satisfaction of know he was right, that there is no one he could ever trust like that anymore -
- "Gokudera?" Chrome gives his shoulder a little shake, more mannish than he would've thought could ever come from her, and he blinks out of reverie.
"Sorry, I..." was thinking. Wondering about things long past. In the end he shakes his head and Chrome shakes hers with a smile that is not fully her own.
It is almost infuriating now, to recognize understanding where once there was only wariness and distrust. They were enemies in middle school when they'd first met, Gokudera remembers suddenly, but the recollection is hazy and unaccompanied by clear pictures. For so long his mind has discarded that fact as superfluous, unnecessary. Water under the bridge.
Mukuro regards him, half-serene, half-severe. He does not wear glasses. Instead, his mismatched eyes are hidden behind plain brown contacts. He is blind in his right one; Chrome does the fighting when it comes up.
The assumption is, of course, that he will agree. And he has. Gokudera packs away palm pilot and signature and distractedly tells Mukuro to enjoy the rest of the party. Mukuro assures him he will, with that sickly hint of a lie that Gokudera has grown to like all these years. Like his own sarcasm, he can trust it to reveal its fangs at every meeting, every possible opportunity. It is an anchor in the strangest of places.
He faces the jungle of flashing, sparkling smiles with his top information specialist, and cannot for the life of him remember why he is standing there. Mukuro brings him back to reality spectacularly:
"Have you found out who they are yet?"
They are not detectives. They are not police. What little traces of a clever trap that couldn't be found then have even less chance of being uncovered now.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gokudera answers, and steels himself to plunge back into the crowd.
----------------
"Gokudera," Yamamoto always pants in his ear with that breathless, almost pleading tone. His thighs squeeze and Gokudera can't breathe for a second, he's too dizzy with the sensation. Their hips bump in reckless time and Gokudera bites down. It tastes a little like ice cream on a silver spoon, the faint trickle of blood being the spoon and Tsuna's gasp being the sweet part.
This time it is Yamamoto who laughs, a little puff of amusement in light of it all. "Tsuna," he calls out, and sweetly Tsuna responds by sliding up, catching Gokudera in the middle. Gokudera glances from one to the other, his smile quirking in response to the two other sly ones. And then it is all a muddle of who gets to clutch at who, who gets to fall on top and there's even a little bit of kicking involved, but it catches Yamamoto in the ribs and all he does is "Oof!" uselessly.
Tsuna squirms above him, Yamamoto flails under him - somehow they sort each other out and the dance begins again in earnest with Tsuna sliding lotion-smooth fingers into him. The touch is patient, but it seems like no time at all before Gokudera is trembling with the effort to keep himself upright and steady.
There comes a moment where he feels the sense of rightness lurch into place, settling his rapid heart exactly where it should be. This is home, and he thinks with despair at the knife edge where they walk, and he -
- he gives because he is strong enough to, and he trusts because he is too weak to deny. And in this impossible balance, this tightrope act of madness -
- he finds this vow is the cornerstone of his world.
------------
Lambo starts a little when he sees Gokudera slouching in the door. "Come in," he gestures, and Gokudera inches as far as he dares, leaning against Shouichi's writing desk. It is finally at a height where a normal-sized man can write at it.
Gokudera does not think about the sacrifices it took to bring the Family to this day.
On the other hand, however unused Lambo's desk has been this size for a long time. Messy hair still splayed like a gleaming black mop over his head, Gokudera notes the twinkle of silver earrings and beads hanging from the ends of braids. For the occasion they are both dressed accordingly for once. Lambo looks sharp, impeccably so, in his white pinstripe. The vertical lines accentuate the leanness of the body underneath and draws that babyish face longer, more adultlike.
Gokudera does not think about how this same man used to dress in cow print all the way up until he was twenty, when abruptly his wardrobe took a tidy, sober little spin into the world of dark hues and plain silks.
"He's still awake," Lambo informs him. Gokudera pictures himself walking up to the bathroom door, rapping politely with the suggestion that Shouichi come out of the shower soon so they can talk. Tsuna's son is more cautious as he follows precociously in his father's footsteps. More haunted, maybe.
"Not now," Gokudera waves the thought aside. Things can be discussed later. And he understands the importance of a childhood now. "I wanted to see how you were doing."
"Well enough," Lambo supplies without hesitation, tilting his head agreeably. Gokudera nods, gaze still distant.
He is being rude, he knows. They are Guardians, they should be able to look each other in the eye unless they are telling a lie, and those are nonexistent between the five of them. Half-truths perhaps, but never when bullets were flying and allegiances shredded like so much confetti paper. No, they are Vongola, and they stick together.
"He's doing much better than Tsuna in his studies," Lambo continues when he realizes Gokudera isn't going to elaborate on his visit. "Better than I was at that age, and more organized too. Though he still drops stuff when he's in a hurry." The last part is said with the slightest trace of a smile, flickering like a firefly around the edges of Lambo's lips. The fatherly look suits him, Gokudera thinks.
"Good to hear," he has to strain himself to say anything. His voice feels strangely hoarse and unused after a week of running around, trying to find people. And yet there is no reprieve from the next set of documents, the next set of crises halfway across the world.
But it is when he realizes Lambo is still observing him with the look of a person who's sure they've been past this landmark before but can't seem to remember when or what it signifies, that he thinks he must really look tired. He lets a little weakness show, rubbing at the spot under his glasses silently, and Lambo leans back a little, satisfied.
Gokudera is suddenly ashamed. He is not sure whether that little action is a lie or a truth anymore. For a moment he flounders in his mind like black dominoes scattered in all directions, and inexplicably he looks towards Lambo, but Lambo is humming softly to himself, rebraiding one of his longer strands of hair.
The sight brings Gokudera back into himself. He stiffens, and Lambo looks up at him.
"Should I tell him you came around?" The question is tossed out insouciantly. Only Lambo's eyes betray the steel resolve that has surfaced after so many years of being the crybaby, the coward of the Family.
"No." Gokudera turns to leave.
Something intangible almost keeps him there. Some unrecalled memory that binds him to the spot as saplings bind themselves to the earth with their new limbs -
- but when he turns, Lambo doesn't even bother to hide the searching expression on his face. Gokudera knows he is looking for traces of the person who tutored him through high school in his spare time and occasionally bought him ice cream when he did well on a hit.
It is in vain. "You should sleep soon," he says. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Lambo echoes faintly. Gokudera doesn't even want to look behind him now, doesn't even want to guess what kind of sympathetic face Lambo has put on for him now. The silence that once roared with absence died to a whisper and then finally to nothing. It stretches now with no possible topics, no existing bridge to cross the void.
Behind him, the door shuts without a sound. And for Gokudera's solitude, that is perfect.
----------
I seriously, seriously feel like doing this dance sometimes. This blahstupid "I-dunnooooo...." dance.
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 805927 (or 802759, 592780, 598027 or however you like it)
Rating: R
Notes: A quick break from "Dog", which is currently undergoing some uh, major reformatting. Gokudera knows a lot of things intimately, but none more than dying slowly in the state of emotionlessness. Comes complete with angsty!30YL!Gokudera. A big thank you to artillie for looking this over for me.
AND I FORGOT. "Shouichi" refers to Sawada Shouichi, my made-up Tsuna's oldest son.
Purge (2009.03.18)
Somebody moans in the dark that isn't him, and the sound drifts through shuddered pants and the bare scrape of skin against skin. He is attacked from above and below - "attacked" is the right word, because there is no other description for the invasion above and the slick temptation below. He is sandwiched between two evil men who have turned his life upside down, one after the other. The remnants float before his eyes and taunts him, waving its shredded edges like a ghost.
He laughs against Tsuna's shoulder, and his boss doesn't hesitate to smile back. It's nothing, he'll say later. But as always, Yamamoto will be curled up on the other side of him, and Gokudera knows he never lets a question slip by without an answer.
--------------
"You could just not go." Ryohei's voice sounds faintly puzzled. "It's all the way in Rio and while you were involved ten years ago, there's no reason to head down there personally this time."
Gokudera shuts the trunk of the car and then gives the shiny black paint an even look. "I'm going," he says simply, and rounds the corner to reach for the driver's door -
- Ryohei's hand is on the glass window, preventing the door from opening any farther. Gokudera can push against that tension, just like he's forced so many negotiations, but Ryohei is also a Guardian, and if anything else that deserves respect. So he raises his eyes to ask wordlessly if Ryohei has any other information to give.
"It's Shouichi's birthday next week," the other Guardian tells him with an embarrassed, practically pleading smile.
Gokudera studies Ryohei's posture. It is casual on the outside, but there is a strain in those shoulders that speaks of something more serious, more worrying. This is the Vongola's head correspondent at work - connecting the gears that make up the machine, drawing the lines between key players in every event, every minor happening in the mafia world. Gokudera is no exception; he holds the physical power in the family, the factories and the contracts, the police informants and the underground routes.
He does not mind the subtle manipulation. There is no one else to do it anymore, after all.
He can tell Ryohei is about to open his mouth and say something Yamamoto-stupid like "You know you're one of the only ones he actually listens to." But his mind neatly wraps up the decision before that can happen. "I will be back before then," he promises out loud, but when Ryohei's hand doesn't budge, he adds neutrally, "Anything else?"
The other Guardian tilts his head a little in the other direction, taking him in, the corners of that mouth turned down. That too is a new face, much like Gokudera's patience, a veil he wears instead of the heart on his sleeve of days now past. Gokudera never thought it'd affect him, but it does now that he's wobbling through life without his crutches, grasping blindly only at the things that once made him feel real and human.
He tilts his head too, mocking Ryohei schoolboy-fashion. A little of the smile returns to Ryohei, Gokudera can see it in those old eyes - but not enough. "You should eat," he admonishes finally, gruff as Ryohei finally lets him climb into his car. He remembers how much Ryohei used to shovel down at Yamamoto-san's place ten years ago.
Or was it twelve? Or fifteen? Or twenty? It had to be before his eyesight started going from working in the lab all day, peering into the glass that separated the testing room from the control panel, recording countless bomb explosions into the same lab book Yamamoto used to doodle on in high school.
The consequences of his work appear in the form of the glasses he slid over his nose. Ryohei shuts the door, smiling - but it's been a good twenty-five since they were in high school, and now Gokudera can read the traces of hesitation in those smile lines, the hint of echoed fear in his counterpart's eyes.
Ryohei knocks twice on the window and obligingly Gokudera rolls it down. "You too," Ryohei teases with more fondness in his voice. Gokudera lets him clap him on the shoulder. "You look like a skeleton these days."
The words freeze the air for a moment like an icy iron fist closing all around them, and then easing. Ryohei's smile is truly apologetic this time. Gokudera closes the window after they exchange final assignment details, and then he is pulling away from headquarters, the rising sun reflecting dizzily in the windshield.
Ryohei's form diminishes quickly in the rear view mirror. His face has turned inward again in that way that tells Gokudera he is contemplating something deep (or deep enough for a jock) and not too happy. Some part of Gokudera doesn't like the way the other Guardian slouches up the stairs, a little less proud than they were twenty or so years ago. The other side of him says he deserves it. The survivors all do.
And then trees obscure his vision of headquarters with its marble steps out front, and Ryohei is unceremoniously lost to view. The sight doesn't dishearten Gokudera, though - his heart remains there, where it had chosen to stay. Ryohei knows that as well as anybody in the living world does.
Gokudera will be back for it. Soon.
--------------
"No," he breathes raggedly into the air. His hands are trapped behind him, he is blindfolded. Skin meets his lips and automatically his tongue goes out to taste - a hand with long fingers and nails bitten halfway down to the pink. Yamamoto.
The other hand glides past his ribs, gaining momentum. As a wordless question the touch lightens until it is barely petting his hipbone, lifting until only one finger is still there, drawing vertical lines gently but firmly. Gokudera repeats the word, strains at his bonds, struggles to free himself even when he is jerked roughly back, head snapping into the safety of a pillow, and a mouth hungrily covers his.
The hand that closes around him in the end is not Yamamoto's - it is smaller, with slender fingers. Gokudera moans encouragement, even as his hands are freed and he tosses the blindfold carelessly away. The room is blue and white and black, colorless except for the lust that blurs in Yamamoto's eyes before he sweeps down and nips at one of Gokudera's nipples. Gokudera jumps.
He bites and Gokudera shouts.
The hand stroking him is replaced by a mouth. He doesn't need to look down to know what it looks like - but he does anyway, eyes drawn to the sight of pert lips swallowing, throat constricting around him. He screams and the scene stops like someone's hit a pause button, before Gokudera is clawing at the sheets, body twisting, feet curling -
- it's a promise.
---------
"Hmm," Hibari grunts, unimpressed by the information in front of him. But in the end he signs it anyway and hands it over.
And then they throw their coats and ties asidein favor of their weapons: dynamite for Gokudera, tonfas for Hibari. It was unsurprising how little things have changed from when they were stupid kids, fighting for a cause none of them truly understood (not even Gokudera). Now they knew for sure what they were protecting - not a man but a system. A legacy.
Hibari retreats briefly, allowing the space, allowing Gokudera's pride. On the other hand Gokudera doesn't disappoint; the dynamite is already falling, timed perfectly, blasting to pieces in the air. Gokudera darts forward -
- a tonfa slices through the smoke, barely missing his left temple. Hibari's mouth is a mask of grinning death as they clash, Gokudera forgoing dynamite for fists. He strikes out high and low, just like he's learned from years on the street. One actually hits, but Hibari doesn't even pause before the tonfa fires down on his shoulder. Gokudera feels the sensation vibrate through his whole body, blindingly white. It fades after a few seconds; Hibari had been holding back on that strike.
The break apart again, breathing a little harder this time. Greetings are over.
They've sparred and observed each other enough so that there's a certain amount they can predict in each other's moves. Gokudera entertains that shadow of Hibari for a second, mind rapidly calculating counters, dodges - but Hibari is already advancing, focused and deadly, smiling even - and Gokudera leans in too, throwing himself into the conflict.
They pass and twist and one point, Gokudera actually has to take out the little blade he and the two others learned how to use when they first formally entered the family. Hibari's inhumanly bloodthirsty delight grows at the sight of this; Gokudera sheaths it back into his arm in the end. Their practice sessions were never meant to be that serious.
Later the two find each other across a table again, sifting wordlessly through documents. Gokudera surreptitiously takes pictures of most of them, as it is probably the only time he will ever see physical evidence of the work Hibari does. On the other hand Hibari lets him, face half-thoughtful, half-calculating over the rims of his glasses.
Gokudera allows himself to wonder, just for a moment, how weak Hibari thinks he is. How vulnerable he is to have let his fangs break, the edge of his bite splintered to this point. Even out of all the remaining Guardians, Gokudera is the only one who has to wear contacts or glasses all the time.
"You're done," Hibari gathers up the papers abruptly. It is barely enough information for Gokudera to piece together what the other Guardian's been up to for the last month. All he sees these days of his fellow Guardians are shadows and fleeting glances. He knows where they all are, of course, he is the Eleventh in all but name - but sometimes he wishes the tragedy brought them together instead of apart.
Those kinds of stories were never true. And it is a selfish thought anyway, he berates himself.
He squints into the darkness outside of the circle of lamplight. Hibari is staring out the window at the moon that hangs full over the silhouette of rolling hills. Somewhere in the night, a canary sings.
"Are you going tomorrow?" Gokudera asks.
A pause. And then: "No."
Gokudera ponders that. There are only three reasons Hibari might not go to Shouichi's birthday celebration tomorrow. At least it isn't a long list to go through; Gokudera is able to come up with the correct answer on the first try.
"Is she going too?" He remembers Dino's daughter from the last time he was invited over to the Chiavarone by nobody other than Hibari himself. Brunette and brown-eyed, she resembles her unknown mother more than Dino's blond and blue-eyed looks. Certainly that kind of personal information about Hibari had never passed through Gokudera's hands, and Dino had never been one to tell whether or not she had been murdered by Dino's own lover.
"I don't know," Hibari murmurs finally. "Perhaps not."
The questions spiral into the night. Gokudera sits back, watching the reflection of the moon in his tea ripple. When he was younger, he never understood Hibari's ferocity, his bloodthirstiness. He never comprehended what motives drove the man other than the one that demanded retribution for wrongs done unto himself, and even that was a stretch. By the time he understood that much about Hibari, Tsuna had already changed him so completely, and Yamamoto had cherished him so deeply...
... now, they are on the same face of the coin. The system - this Family - has given and taken away so many times it is almost routine now, the purge of emotions. Feelings have blunted to a point where they register but don't quite reach anymore. While they had come from so many interests, so many angles - in the end, they've all been beaten into the same mold of sad old man.
When he sees Hibari smiling bitterly at the view, Gokudera unconsciously does the same.
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It is so easy, even after all these years. Tsuna squirms when he is caressed, arches when he is licked, and jerks when he is tickled. Right now Yamamoto is having the time of his life with the last one, practically giggling as Tsuna fights to escape those so-called "Claws of Doom".
Gokudera impulsively decides to end it right there, tugging Tsuna's pajama pants off in one go. The tension switches immediately from play to passion. Yamamoto's hands wander more purposefully now, smoothing down hips and thighs, stroking. Tsuna hums, a comforted sound, and leans into the touch.
In tandem it seems, Yamamoto and Gokudera's arms cross, binding the three of them together as one, inseparable unit. No start or finish of limbs or heads or pleasure. No numbers, no reality - only the wild, soaring enthusiasm to discover more about each other.
Teeth scrape along the edge, lined by the smear of lips and saliva. Tsuna muffles a whimper into the pillow. Gokudera rises, hands worshipping as Yamamoto guides him down as if blind, to taste more. Once he would have been disgusted, but now he takes advantage of the quiet simply to feel his own quickening pulse, his own flash of heady desire -
- and slowly, like descending from a cloud, they come down sleepily. In life, in sleep, in death they trust. Even if the world swallows them whole one by one, these memories alone will prove they were once human.
--------------
"Hmm," Mukuro muses, much as Hibari had. In the end he hands over the documents he'd been shown on Gokudera's palm pilot, and meet his eyes for the first time that day. "Interesting. But you still haven't given me a reason to get involved."
A cloudless day in spring. People mill about in semi-formal attire, chatting about their latest business prospects without any fear of repercussion. Gokudera turns his attention away from the mob of well-wishes surrounding Sawada Shouichi, and takes another gulp from his glass. The champagne turns to acid as it bubbles down his throat.
Champagne. For celebrations.
A mere seventy kilometers away, somebody is standing in front of Dino Chiavarone's grave.
"It doesn't need a reason. Just that it's suspicious enough Hibari would take a glance at it personally." Gokudera's eyes picks out Ryohei, watching from his vantage point on the top of the stairs. "The numbers were never correct, from what the reports say."
Mukuro's - no, Chrome's - dark gaze peers knowingly up at him. "Based on his report?" she prompts simply, and he doesn't hesitate to nod. They both know the context; they are, in fact, probably the two Guardians who are in most contact with each other now, despite Ryohei's quarters at the mansion being right next to Gokudera's own. But every day, he spends more time with the Varia, Gokudera knows he has a room there too, and the reminder gives the cold satisfaction of know he was right, that there is no one he could ever trust like that anymore -
- "Gokudera?" Chrome gives his shoulder a little shake, more mannish than he would've thought could ever come from her, and he blinks out of reverie.
"Sorry, I..." was thinking. Wondering about things long past. In the end he shakes his head and Chrome shakes hers with a smile that is not fully her own.
It is almost infuriating now, to recognize understanding where once there was only wariness and distrust. They were enemies in middle school when they'd first met, Gokudera remembers suddenly, but the recollection is hazy and unaccompanied by clear pictures. For so long his mind has discarded that fact as superfluous, unnecessary. Water under the bridge.
Mukuro regards him, half-serene, half-severe. He does not wear glasses. Instead, his mismatched eyes are hidden behind plain brown contacts. He is blind in his right one; Chrome does the fighting when it comes up.
The assumption is, of course, that he will agree. And he has. Gokudera packs away palm pilot and signature and distractedly tells Mukuro to enjoy the rest of the party. Mukuro assures him he will, with that sickly hint of a lie that Gokudera has grown to like all these years. Like his own sarcasm, he can trust it to reveal its fangs at every meeting, every possible opportunity. It is an anchor in the strangest of places.
He faces the jungle of flashing, sparkling smiles with his top information specialist, and cannot for the life of him remember why he is standing there. Mukuro brings him back to reality spectacularly:
"Have you found out who they are yet?"
They are not detectives. They are not police. What little traces of a clever trap that couldn't be found then have even less chance of being uncovered now.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gokudera answers, and steels himself to plunge back into the crowd.
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"Gokudera," Yamamoto always pants in his ear with that breathless, almost pleading tone. His thighs squeeze and Gokudera can't breathe for a second, he's too dizzy with the sensation. Their hips bump in reckless time and Gokudera bites down. It tastes a little like ice cream on a silver spoon, the faint trickle of blood being the spoon and Tsuna's gasp being the sweet part.
This time it is Yamamoto who laughs, a little puff of amusement in light of it all. "Tsuna," he calls out, and sweetly Tsuna responds by sliding up, catching Gokudera in the middle. Gokudera glances from one to the other, his smile quirking in response to the two other sly ones. And then it is all a muddle of who gets to clutch at who, who gets to fall on top and there's even a little bit of kicking involved, but it catches Yamamoto in the ribs and all he does is "Oof!" uselessly.
Tsuna squirms above him, Yamamoto flails under him - somehow they sort each other out and the dance begins again in earnest with Tsuna sliding lotion-smooth fingers into him. The touch is patient, but it seems like no time at all before Gokudera is trembling with the effort to keep himself upright and steady.
There comes a moment where he feels the sense of rightness lurch into place, settling his rapid heart exactly where it should be. This is home, and he thinks with despair at the knife edge where they walk, and he -
- he gives because he is strong enough to, and he trusts because he is too weak to deny. And in this impossible balance, this tightrope act of madness -
- he finds this vow is the cornerstone of his world.
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Lambo starts a little when he sees Gokudera slouching in the door. "Come in," he gestures, and Gokudera inches as far as he dares, leaning against Shouichi's writing desk. It is finally at a height where a normal-sized man can write at it.
Gokudera does not think about the sacrifices it took to bring the Family to this day.
On the other hand, however unused Lambo's desk has been this size for a long time. Messy hair still splayed like a gleaming black mop over his head, Gokudera notes the twinkle of silver earrings and beads hanging from the ends of braids. For the occasion they are both dressed accordingly for once. Lambo looks sharp, impeccably so, in his white pinstripe. The vertical lines accentuate the leanness of the body underneath and draws that babyish face longer, more adultlike.
Gokudera does not think about how this same man used to dress in cow print all the way up until he was twenty, when abruptly his wardrobe took a tidy, sober little spin into the world of dark hues and plain silks.
"He's still awake," Lambo informs him. Gokudera pictures himself walking up to the bathroom door, rapping politely with the suggestion that Shouichi come out of the shower soon so they can talk. Tsuna's son is more cautious as he follows precociously in his father's footsteps. More haunted, maybe.
"Not now," Gokudera waves the thought aside. Things can be discussed later. And he understands the importance of a childhood now. "I wanted to see how you were doing."
"Well enough," Lambo supplies without hesitation, tilting his head agreeably. Gokudera nods, gaze still distant.
He is being rude, he knows. They are Guardians, they should be able to look each other in the eye unless they are telling a lie, and those are nonexistent between the five of them. Half-truths perhaps, but never when bullets were flying and allegiances shredded like so much confetti paper. No, they are Vongola, and they stick together.
"He's doing much better than Tsuna in his studies," Lambo continues when he realizes Gokudera isn't going to elaborate on his visit. "Better than I was at that age, and more organized too. Though he still drops stuff when he's in a hurry." The last part is said with the slightest trace of a smile, flickering like a firefly around the edges of Lambo's lips. The fatherly look suits him, Gokudera thinks.
"Good to hear," he has to strain himself to say anything. His voice feels strangely hoarse and unused after a week of running around, trying to find people. And yet there is no reprieve from the next set of documents, the next set of crises halfway across the world.
But it is when he realizes Lambo is still observing him with the look of a person who's sure they've been past this landmark before but can't seem to remember when or what it signifies, that he thinks he must really look tired. He lets a little weakness show, rubbing at the spot under his glasses silently, and Lambo leans back a little, satisfied.
Gokudera is suddenly ashamed. He is not sure whether that little action is a lie or a truth anymore. For a moment he flounders in his mind like black dominoes scattered in all directions, and inexplicably he looks towards Lambo, but Lambo is humming softly to himself, rebraiding one of his longer strands of hair.
The sight brings Gokudera back into himself. He stiffens, and Lambo looks up at him.
"Should I tell him you came around?" The question is tossed out insouciantly. Only Lambo's eyes betray the steel resolve that has surfaced after so many years of being the crybaby, the coward of the Family.
"No." Gokudera turns to leave.
Something intangible almost keeps him there. Some unrecalled memory that binds him to the spot as saplings bind themselves to the earth with their new limbs -
- but when he turns, Lambo doesn't even bother to hide the searching expression on his face. Gokudera knows he is looking for traces of the person who tutored him through high school in his spare time and occasionally bought him ice cream when he did well on a hit.
It is in vain. "You should sleep soon," he says. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Lambo echoes faintly. Gokudera doesn't even want to look behind him now, doesn't even want to guess what kind of sympathetic face Lambo has put on for him now. The silence that once roared with absence died to a whisper and then finally to nothing. It stretches now with no possible topics, no existing bridge to cross the void.
Behind him, the door shuts without a sound. And for Gokudera's solitude, that is perfect.
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I seriously, seriously feel like doing this dance sometimes. This blahstupid "I-dunnooooo...." dance.
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