Reborn Story: "Dressing Up"
Title: Dressing Up
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 80+59 preslash, random OC+59
Rating: PG-13
Notes: uhm. Attempted and ultimately unsuccessful non-con is probably the most I can warn about. Can be read separately from Part 1, but you can read that one too. Written for Nano. Beware of Gokudera in a dress, willingly.
Dressing Up
(2009.11.28)
Gokudera doesn't see himself until Bianchi's done putting the final touches on his hair and his eyes. Their skin colors are similar enough for him so he can just borrow her makeup - in fact, as she applied it she noted he was actually paler than she was, probably from his mother. The wig too fits like a dream on his head, so all he has to do is pull back his bangs and set it on top, and the waves whip around when he turns to glare at Yamamoto, who's stopped dead in the door just staring at him.
He doesn't dare move too much because he's not used to there being yards and yards of satin and lace around him, but he has to sit down so he can put on those darned shoes. At least they aren't too high; he was already having trouble with one inch heels, much less two inches or higher. He hopes the girls chose something that was comfortable - he doesn't mind that he's trussed up like a fucking girl, but if he's going to be uncomfortable for this damn job, he's going to throw a fucking fit in front of everybody at that stupid dance.
"You look good," Yamamoto offers with a teasing grin. Gokudera looks him up and down and is reminded of the first time he dragged Yamamoto shopping, because he couldn't take the fact he was wearing regular cotton shirts around headquarters when he's worth so much more. It isn't like he can't afford it or he doesn't need it either - like now, for the party if he's to look appropriate, he'd better have something semi-formal and brand-name lined up, or else he'll be laughed out of town.
"You do too," Gokudera offers sweetly. The suit and shirt he picked out yesterday look awesome on Yamamoto as he thought they would, accentuating the fact that it is a very nice twenty-three year old underneath all of that spun wool and sillk. The blue brings out the fact that Yamamoto's eyes are lighter brown than any other Asian man Gokudera's ever met, and the gold tie pin and cufflink set, set cleverly in the shape of swallows, only reflect well on the hitman's sun-bronzed skin tone.
Ever the gentleman, he offers Gokudera his arm once he's done, which Gokudera takes. He leads him towards the vanity in the hotel room; Gokudera's a little alarmed when the only thing Yamamoto's eyes are fixed on is him, as if he can't look away. Gokudera, on the other hand, is running Reborn's words through his mind - that being a girl was a state of mind that he has to cultivate, not fight or pretend to be. He will need it tonight if he was to pull off the hit successfully, since that man was such a pathetic pervert.
So he sinks into his role of Vivacia, developed through painstaking care (on Reborn's side, though shooting at him every time he dropped back into Hayato might not really be care) and practice. It's not as if he pushes Gokudera Hayato out, just...makes him think of things that girls usually think of doing. Paying attention to detail. Having forethought. Being coy and flitter-thoughted, and PMS-y and really, he didn't know why he was doing this when he thought so abysmally of girls -
- he can't help but freeze when he stops in front of the mirror, because he finally knows why Yamamoto had been staring at him. He is staring at himself in the mirror, feeling why exactly girls were definitely another species entirely, because that pretty girl in the mirror just could not be him.
Sure, she has the same wavy hair and green eyes, the same pixie-like face, but she is so indescribably beautiful with the way she looks, a little shy and alarmed. Her dress clings to her form here and there, around the thin waist in a sash of powder blue and cream; her toes peek out from those shoes he'd deemed ugly the first time he saw them, but now he can see they show off his fine-boned ankles yet still seem demure and ladylike.
"Hello Vivacia," he whispers, but what he really means to say is Hello Mother. His boy voice sounds alien coming from her, so he tries again. "Hello Vivacia." And her lips curve into a sultry smile, her eyes coming alive with the spark of invitation. She steps away from the mirror and her hair falls down her bare back, just like he remembers. She is such a vision in white and lace, her smile nevertheless speaking of ostracization and other painful things.
The car ride there is dead silent, all three people concentrated on their three separate hits. She stares down at her gloved hands, turns them this way and that, watching the sparkling fake ring that Tsuna has supplied him with. Bitterness wells her mouth at the sight, and deep inside of his role Hayato wonders if his father even gave her a ring, ever gave her anything more than empty promises.
"Are you alright?," Yamamoto asks before they enter the dance hall. He's still fixated on her face, this time out of worry rather than amazement, and she pats his arm as soothing as she can, her smile turning briefly real.
"Let me do this," she murmurs in return.
They enter the hall and he drops her off at a gaggle of ladies before he leaves to talk business or linger for the rest of the night. His hit is easily done, an egotistical backstabber of no great consequence except for the information he's leaked about the family to the carabinieri, it is mostly because Yamamoto looks hideous in a dress that Gokudera stepped in at all. He's still concerned when he leans in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek, his hands lingering protectively on her shoulders before he disappears in the crowd. Vivacia gives him barely a glance, she jumps right into the conversation and introduces herself gracefully.
Across the room her eyes meet Bianchi's, and then fall away again. They can't get close to each other, people will think they're sisters, which is too close to the truth. Hers is an easy one too, almost a freebie that Tsuna tossed in after the hit assignments were done with. She will be the first one done for sure, all she has to do is lure the woman into a back room, she doesn't even need to clean up as the body's supposed to left there to make a point.
After most of the party's guests have arrived, Hayato takes the time to locate his target. He is in a knot of similarly dressed overweight cigar smokers, undoubtedly talking about something utterly utterly obscene about the women across the room. Then Vivacia talks a little, flashes a smile at the band conductor, and concludes negotiations with some euros. This little signorina will play for a bit on the piano that the host immediately wheels out, beady black eyes fixed on the fluff of her skirts.
She settles onto the bench and as soon as Hayato touches the keys he knows he will play wonderfully. He knows every note that will sound and the wonder he'll inspire by the few people that will listen to him. He knows the songs he'll play, Italian and French love ballads, saccharine and pure in the way that he isn't anymore. He hums before he plays, smiles at her reflection in the black lacquer, and then lightly dips her fingers onto the keys, still singing lightly under her breath.
Heads turn when the band joins in, picking up the song quickly. It's been so long, his fingers are rusty it seems, but better without the gloves now that he's taken them off. And overarching the rush of pleasure she gets at making music once more, he can feel her behind him, her patient instructions, the warmth of her arms around him as she plonks his fingers down one by one. Before tonight her face was hazy in his dreams, just a stroke of pale complexion; today it's as if she's standing behind him again, pushing him gently forward into the spotlight. He remembers how she played, as if she was pouring all of herself into the chords, and he gathers all of his strength and experiences, and they color in the notes perfectly.
Of course he recalls her on the piano bench, but he also remembers rainy days where Bianchi dressed him in her old clothes, and smeared her mother's lipstick on his cheeks like some hideous blush. He remembers the smack of a baseball in his hand as he played catch with the Tenth and Yamamoto. He remembers sunny days and the feel of dynamite in his hands. He remembers the searing heat of them exploding too close, and how he'd learned to time it under Shamal's watchful eyes. He remembers coming home injured and exhausted, and how Yamamoto had held him up though he was just as tired, and how the two of them had staggered home as if drunk, but worse.
Such bitterness, such pain that Vivacia would've never had to go through. Gokudera feels like singing when he's her, because she is so lighthearted, never looking past the next performance, the next birthday, because she simply isn't that kind of person who plans her future. Free; everything he is not. He wants to cry then, because he understands how reality struck her down, how her daydreams of tomorrow never came true, could never be true in a cutthroat world like this.
He is different. Gokudera Hayato is different; he knows the piano but he knows better than to fall in love with it. As much as he hates him, he has too much of his father in him, along with that goddamn tendency to fall in love and get sidetracked on the road of life. Just, Hayato had put his aces down on the right person, for sure. His reverence of his beloved Tenth had never put him astray, not when Tsuna gave so much back to everyone that served his cause.
People are swaying with the music, some singing along. The host comes personally to greedily take in her delicate form perched on the bench, ignorant of the feeling she's thrown into her music. She ends the performance sourly (at least in her eyes) because of him, steps down with a blank smile to thank the conductor and for the host's generosity. His hand is too warm, too clammy when he shakes it; discreetly she wipes it behind her and slips on her gloves. The audience is still clapping, one louder than the others - Yamamoto, standing right behind the target, his eyes both proud and fearful. He takes her face in his and kisses her forehead, ever the perfect husband. His face is still concerned when he retreats, echoing with the same question: Are you feeling alright, Gokudera?
She turns her attentions to the host, who's delighted to receive it. "My husband trusts me," she divulges to the group of guests around the host. She isn't very good at the small talk, but all the same it seems she doesn't need to try very hard - the conversation trudges along without her help, and all she has to do is add a few comments here and there. People startle a little at her low voice - but it's a girl's voice to be sure, sweet with girlish innocence, and she can feel the rake of hunger from the target, who grins at her as if to say, I've already got you.
In the privacy of his own mind Hayato begs to differ, and Vivacia agrees wholeheartedly.
As the party winds to a close she spots Yamamoto ushering his target out the side, leaning like a pair of drunken fools. Gokudera doesn't pity him; it is, in the end, business, and backstabbing is nothing personal. No attacks on their personalities, not that they usually got close enough to their business partners to see their true colors. Dino Chiavarone is the prime exception of that, only because he courted the Tenth Vongola boss early, and gained his good favor by generously showing him the ropes. It's quite a strange circumstance in the mafia world, such trust between two bosses - then again, their two families have always been the black sheep, one non-Italian boss and the other a young and competent one.
She excuses herself to go to the washroom and isn't surprised when heavy footsteps follow her. "Signora," the host pants behind her, hands pulling the pants that ride desperately below his bulging belly. "A moment, just one word, prego."
Slowly she turns, hands tightening on the gun in her hidden pocket. "A word, or a couple of words, Don Tomasino?"
He fights to regain his breath, but when he does he doesn't hesitate to reach for her, caressing her cheek. She fights the urge to shudder, and slaps his hand playfully away instead. "My husband will see," she scolds. He scoots up to her nonetheless, pins her against the wall. His hands dip generously into her hair, letting the moonlight catch it as it falls. Hayato hurriedly holds his head steady against the wall to insure the wig doesn't come off.
"Oh, Signora, you siete la donna che più bella ho visto mai," he begins. She struggles not to inhale his cigar-scented breath, praying at the same time he'll think it's something else. "You're like the Virgin in the pictures, except your fingers are infinitely more talented, and your form so much more beautiful."
"Don," she tries to protest, but the words are locking in her throat. There is something so predatory in that gaze that screams that something is wrong, that she needs to run away. Hayato tries to reemerge, but he has her planted against the wall like some trapped butterfly, and she can't think past the suffocating breath that billows in her face. Somehow she knows if she lets her guard down even for a second, if she for whatever reason says yes, this man will rip her of her respect and tear her dignity into shreds.
Somewhere inside, Hayato screams for her to move, to pull out the gun and shoot the fucking man, shove a dynamite in his pudgy stomach or something, and then leave the cleanup crew to pick up the body. But she can't move, she's too in character, and it's as if the two of them have forgotten how to shoot a gun, because it just lies there in her pocket even as she longs to escape, to flee this man and his licentious, grasping hands.
"Come here, Signora," he wheedles, but she just stares at him like a deer in headlights, her hair swaying in the warm summer wind. Evidently she's too slow, because suddenly he's there like her worst dreams, he's gripping her through her bodice, laughing at her weakness, shredding her propriety like so much confetti, and all she can do is push weakly at his shoulders and draw breath to scream. But his lips cover hers, and she doesn't know what's going on anymore, because Hayato's supposed to come up here, supposed to strike him down in the moment where the enemy's at his lowest guard, supposed to take that weapon and bring him down before the worst should happen.
The worst is still happening, his hands are still gripping her thighs, and this time she screams at his touch, she breaks away but her voice is soft as the wingbeat of a moth, as her beating heart tells her to breathe before it bursts from abhorrence. Inside Hayato starts to fight back against her, pushing her back, there's too much going on and she's yelling in her head because she doesn't know what she should, this isn't how it should end.
A hand that isn't hers seems to come into her vision, gloved in white with the fake ring on it. It is hers, she and Hayato both realize. Surprise ripples through the two of them, and a split-second's meeting is conferred to acknowledge that it indeed is not either of them that is moving them. But as they watch, the hand pulls out the gun on the pudgy man that is grinding himself desperately on her pelvis, and points the barrel right in the center of the target's sweaty forehead.
The bullet goes off point-blank, and skullbone shatters on Hayato as he surfaces at last. He sucks in breath after breath, each one punctuated by a bullet from a gun that somehow he's holding, and still firing. Vivacia has retreated to the back of his mind; the gig is up, as he can tell by the look in the dying Don Tomasino's eyes. With his other hand he rips off wig and fake chest pillows, and pulls the trigger until the clip is empty. The echo of shells tinkle like bells on the floor as they spin, then come to a stop.
He's breathing hard, and the deed is done. He stares at the disgusting body on the ground, blood and brain bits everywhere, and in a voice that isn't his, he murmurs to the sight, "As if I've watched over him all these years to let a pig like you defile my Hayato."
It's not Vivacia, he thinks as he slumps back against the wall, as far away from the pool of blood as he can. Vivacia is still in the back of his mind, glibbering into madness. He hopes he won't ever need a useless girl like her ever again, no matter how hard he and Reborn tried to cultivate her into a person, an alter personality in his mind. She was always too weak to survive in the mafia world, unequipped to deal with the decisions that had to be made to the detriment of other people.
She is still near though, the one that had spoken. He gets the feeling she's always been there, and that she's only surfaced strongly tonight. He gazes up at the moon as if it could tell him the answers to the uncertain sensations that flit through his mind: confusion, shame, dismay. He doesn't remember how he used to be a hitman before he met the Tenth, maybe because he doesn't want to remember the way he used to be able to ignore the direction other people's lives took or didn't take because of him. That selfish way of seeing the world had all taken a turn for the better when he'd met Tsuna.
He's still staring at the moon, the cooling, motionless form of Don Tomasino still lying several feet away, when there comes the sound of quick steps down the corridor. Wearily he struggles to his feet and lines up for another shot, only to see it's a very sober Yamamoto who's walking, no, striding towards him with those long steps of his.
"Signora?," he calls out prudently, and stops in front of her to peer at her face. He doesn't even give the body a glance as he takes her face in his, mops at the bits of gore that've peppered her front. "Gokudera?," he asks softly. "Gokudera, are you alright?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but at that very moment Yamamoto swipes the handkerchief over his lips, and he's drawn to the concentration in the other man's lion eyes. He shuts his mouth again, unable to speak, only to nod, gun dropping with a clatter to the floor.
Evidently this not a complete answer in Yamamoto's book, because he seizes Gokudera's face in his palms and starts giving him the kiss of his life. Gokudera, on the other hand, allows it for about five seconds before he realizes who it is, what he's doing, and how good it feels to have someone other than some sodding pervert push his lips on his. Then again, what Yamamoto is currently doing to him could also be considered harrassment.
He shoves the other away, shaking his hair out with one gloved hand. "What the hell!," he barks, and Yamamoto actually steps back at the ferociousness of his face. "I didn't give you the fucking permission to kiss me, and even if I wanted it you should ask a person first, don't you think? God, just because I look like a fucking girl -" At this point Yamamoto's laughing with relief, big guffaws of relief that have him leaning on the balcony for support. "What the hell is so funny?"
"You," the other man gasps. "You." And he reaches out and strokes Gokudera's cheek with one finger just because he can, and looks entirely too pleased with himself when all Gokudera does is slap it away irritably. He can compare the two touches in his mind, and he knows which one he'd prefer, as wrong as it sounded even to him.
"Yeah, what about me."
Yamamoto smiles against the macabre backdrop of blood on the floor and smeared on the walls, and picks up the fallen male-concealants and the gun. Then he brushes off Gokudera's hair so there aren't any white skull bits left, and offers his arm once more. "Let's go home, Signora," he murmurs in Gokudera's ear. When Gokudera shies away at the contact, Yamamoto's other hand tightens where it lies, on top of Gokudera's. He's reassured that snarky Gokudera is back, whereas he seemed to be mysteriously absent from the beginning of the night.
Gokudera, on the other hand, falls exhaustedly asleep on Yamamoto's shoulder on the ride home. It isn't a surprise to him that his dreams smell like the sickening mix of rain and smoke and white lilies, the brilliant blue pattern of wrapping paper, and the overarching tingle of piano chords above it all.
--------
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 80+59 preslash, random OC+59
Rating: PG-13
Notes: uhm. Attempted and ultimately unsuccessful non-con is probably the most I can warn about. Can be read separately from Part 1, but you can read that one too. Written for Nano. Beware of Gokudera in a dress, willingly.
Dressing Up
(2009.11.28)
Gokudera doesn't see himself until Bianchi's done putting the final touches on his hair and his eyes. Their skin colors are similar enough for him so he can just borrow her makeup - in fact, as she applied it she noted he was actually paler than she was, probably from his mother. The wig too fits like a dream on his head, so all he has to do is pull back his bangs and set it on top, and the waves whip around when he turns to glare at Yamamoto, who's stopped dead in the door just staring at him.
He doesn't dare move too much because he's not used to there being yards and yards of satin and lace around him, but he has to sit down so he can put on those darned shoes. At least they aren't too high; he was already having trouble with one inch heels, much less two inches or higher. He hopes the girls chose something that was comfortable - he doesn't mind that he's trussed up like a fucking girl, but if he's going to be uncomfortable for this damn job, he's going to throw a fucking fit in front of everybody at that stupid dance.
"You look good," Yamamoto offers with a teasing grin. Gokudera looks him up and down and is reminded of the first time he dragged Yamamoto shopping, because he couldn't take the fact he was wearing regular cotton shirts around headquarters when he's worth so much more. It isn't like he can't afford it or he doesn't need it either - like now, for the party if he's to look appropriate, he'd better have something semi-formal and brand-name lined up, or else he'll be laughed out of town.
"You do too," Gokudera offers sweetly. The suit and shirt he picked out yesterday look awesome on Yamamoto as he thought they would, accentuating the fact that it is a very nice twenty-three year old underneath all of that spun wool and sillk. The blue brings out the fact that Yamamoto's eyes are lighter brown than any other Asian man Gokudera's ever met, and the gold tie pin and cufflink set, set cleverly in the shape of swallows, only reflect well on the hitman's sun-bronzed skin tone.
Ever the gentleman, he offers Gokudera his arm once he's done, which Gokudera takes. He leads him towards the vanity in the hotel room; Gokudera's a little alarmed when the only thing Yamamoto's eyes are fixed on is him, as if he can't look away. Gokudera, on the other hand, is running Reborn's words through his mind - that being a girl was a state of mind that he has to cultivate, not fight or pretend to be. He will need it tonight if he was to pull off the hit successfully, since that man was such a pathetic pervert.
So he sinks into his role of Vivacia, developed through painstaking care (on Reborn's side, though shooting at him every time he dropped back into Hayato might not really be care) and practice. It's not as if he pushes Gokudera Hayato out, just...makes him think of things that girls usually think of doing. Paying attention to detail. Having forethought. Being coy and flitter-thoughted, and PMS-y and really, he didn't know why he was doing this when he thought so abysmally of girls -
- he can't help but freeze when he stops in front of the mirror, because he finally knows why Yamamoto had been staring at him. He is staring at himself in the mirror, feeling why exactly girls were definitely another species entirely, because that pretty girl in the mirror just could not be him.
Sure, she has the same wavy hair and green eyes, the same pixie-like face, but she is so indescribably beautiful with the way she looks, a little shy and alarmed. Her dress clings to her form here and there, around the thin waist in a sash of powder blue and cream; her toes peek out from those shoes he'd deemed ugly the first time he saw them, but now he can see they show off his fine-boned ankles yet still seem demure and ladylike.
"Hello Vivacia," he whispers, but what he really means to say is Hello Mother. His boy voice sounds alien coming from her, so he tries again. "Hello Vivacia." And her lips curve into a sultry smile, her eyes coming alive with the spark of invitation. She steps away from the mirror and her hair falls down her bare back, just like he remembers. She is such a vision in white and lace, her smile nevertheless speaking of ostracization and other painful things.
The car ride there is dead silent, all three people concentrated on their three separate hits. She stares down at her gloved hands, turns them this way and that, watching the sparkling fake ring that Tsuna has supplied him with. Bitterness wells her mouth at the sight, and deep inside of his role Hayato wonders if his father even gave her a ring, ever gave her anything more than empty promises.
"Are you alright?," Yamamoto asks before they enter the dance hall. He's still fixated on her face, this time out of worry rather than amazement, and she pats his arm as soothing as she can, her smile turning briefly real.
"Let me do this," she murmurs in return.
They enter the hall and he drops her off at a gaggle of ladies before he leaves to talk business or linger for the rest of the night. His hit is easily done, an egotistical backstabber of no great consequence except for the information he's leaked about the family to the carabinieri, it is mostly because Yamamoto looks hideous in a dress that Gokudera stepped in at all. He's still concerned when he leans in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek, his hands lingering protectively on her shoulders before he disappears in the crowd. Vivacia gives him barely a glance, she jumps right into the conversation and introduces herself gracefully.
Across the room her eyes meet Bianchi's, and then fall away again. They can't get close to each other, people will think they're sisters, which is too close to the truth. Hers is an easy one too, almost a freebie that Tsuna tossed in after the hit assignments were done with. She will be the first one done for sure, all she has to do is lure the woman into a back room, she doesn't even need to clean up as the body's supposed to left there to make a point.
After most of the party's guests have arrived, Hayato takes the time to locate his target. He is in a knot of similarly dressed overweight cigar smokers, undoubtedly talking about something utterly utterly obscene about the women across the room. Then Vivacia talks a little, flashes a smile at the band conductor, and concludes negotiations with some euros. This little signorina will play for a bit on the piano that the host immediately wheels out, beady black eyes fixed on the fluff of her skirts.
She settles onto the bench and as soon as Hayato touches the keys he knows he will play wonderfully. He knows every note that will sound and the wonder he'll inspire by the few people that will listen to him. He knows the songs he'll play, Italian and French love ballads, saccharine and pure in the way that he isn't anymore. He hums before he plays, smiles at her reflection in the black lacquer, and then lightly dips her fingers onto the keys, still singing lightly under her breath.
Heads turn when the band joins in, picking up the song quickly. It's been so long, his fingers are rusty it seems, but better without the gloves now that he's taken them off. And overarching the rush of pleasure she gets at making music once more, he can feel her behind him, her patient instructions, the warmth of her arms around him as she plonks his fingers down one by one. Before tonight her face was hazy in his dreams, just a stroke of pale complexion; today it's as if she's standing behind him again, pushing him gently forward into the spotlight. He remembers how she played, as if she was pouring all of herself into the chords, and he gathers all of his strength and experiences, and they color in the notes perfectly.
Of course he recalls her on the piano bench, but he also remembers rainy days where Bianchi dressed him in her old clothes, and smeared her mother's lipstick on his cheeks like some hideous blush. He remembers the smack of a baseball in his hand as he played catch with the Tenth and Yamamoto. He remembers sunny days and the feel of dynamite in his hands. He remembers the searing heat of them exploding too close, and how he'd learned to time it under Shamal's watchful eyes. He remembers coming home injured and exhausted, and how Yamamoto had held him up though he was just as tired, and how the two of them had staggered home as if drunk, but worse.
Such bitterness, such pain that Vivacia would've never had to go through. Gokudera feels like singing when he's her, because she is so lighthearted, never looking past the next performance, the next birthday, because she simply isn't that kind of person who plans her future. Free; everything he is not. He wants to cry then, because he understands how reality struck her down, how her daydreams of tomorrow never came true, could never be true in a cutthroat world like this.
He is different. Gokudera Hayato is different; he knows the piano but he knows better than to fall in love with it. As much as he hates him, he has too much of his father in him, along with that goddamn tendency to fall in love and get sidetracked on the road of life. Just, Hayato had put his aces down on the right person, for sure. His reverence of his beloved Tenth had never put him astray, not when Tsuna gave so much back to everyone that served his cause.
People are swaying with the music, some singing along. The host comes personally to greedily take in her delicate form perched on the bench, ignorant of the feeling she's thrown into her music. She ends the performance sourly (at least in her eyes) because of him, steps down with a blank smile to thank the conductor and for the host's generosity. His hand is too warm, too clammy when he shakes it; discreetly she wipes it behind her and slips on her gloves. The audience is still clapping, one louder than the others - Yamamoto, standing right behind the target, his eyes both proud and fearful. He takes her face in his and kisses her forehead, ever the perfect husband. His face is still concerned when he retreats, echoing with the same question: Are you feeling alright, Gokudera?
She turns her attentions to the host, who's delighted to receive it. "My husband trusts me," she divulges to the group of guests around the host. She isn't very good at the small talk, but all the same it seems she doesn't need to try very hard - the conversation trudges along without her help, and all she has to do is add a few comments here and there. People startle a little at her low voice - but it's a girl's voice to be sure, sweet with girlish innocence, and she can feel the rake of hunger from the target, who grins at her as if to say, I've already got you.
In the privacy of his own mind Hayato begs to differ, and Vivacia agrees wholeheartedly.
As the party winds to a close she spots Yamamoto ushering his target out the side, leaning like a pair of drunken fools. Gokudera doesn't pity him; it is, in the end, business, and backstabbing is nothing personal. No attacks on their personalities, not that they usually got close enough to their business partners to see their true colors. Dino Chiavarone is the prime exception of that, only because he courted the Tenth Vongola boss early, and gained his good favor by generously showing him the ropes. It's quite a strange circumstance in the mafia world, such trust between two bosses - then again, their two families have always been the black sheep, one non-Italian boss and the other a young and competent one.
She excuses herself to go to the washroom and isn't surprised when heavy footsteps follow her. "Signora," the host pants behind her, hands pulling the pants that ride desperately below his bulging belly. "A moment, just one word, prego."
Slowly she turns, hands tightening on the gun in her hidden pocket. "A word, or a couple of words, Don Tomasino?"
He fights to regain his breath, but when he does he doesn't hesitate to reach for her, caressing her cheek. She fights the urge to shudder, and slaps his hand playfully away instead. "My husband will see," she scolds. He scoots up to her nonetheless, pins her against the wall. His hands dip generously into her hair, letting the moonlight catch it as it falls. Hayato hurriedly holds his head steady against the wall to insure the wig doesn't come off.
"Oh, Signora, you siete la donna che più bella ho visto mai," he begins. She struggles not to inhale his cigar-scented breath, praying at the same time he'll think it's something else. "You're like the Virgin in the pictures, except your fingers are infinitely more talented, and your form so much more beautiful."
"Don," she tries to protest, but the words are locking in her throat. There is something so predatory in that gaze that screams that something is wrong, that she needs to run away. Hayato tries to reemerge, but he has her planted against the wall like some trapped butterfly, and she can't think past the suffocating breath that billows in her face. Somehow she knows if she lets her guard down even for a second, if she for whatever reason says yes, this man will rip her of her respect and tear her dignity into shreds.
Somewhere inside, Hayato screams for her to move, to pull out the gun and shoot the fucking man, shove a dynamite in his pudgy stomach or something, and then leave the cleanup crew to pick up the body. But she can't move, she's too in character, and it's as if the two of them have forgotten how to shoot a gun, because it just lies there in her pocket even as she longs to escape, to flee this man and his licentious, grasping hands.
"Come here, Signora," he wheedles, but she just stares at him like a deer in headlights, her hair swaying in the warm summer wind. Evidently she's too slow, because suddenly he's there like her worst dreams, he's gripping her through her bodice, laughing at her weakness, shredding her propriety like so much confetti, and all she can do is push weakly at his shoulders and draw breath to scream. But his lips cover hers, and she doesn't know what's going on anymore, because Hayato's supposed to come up here, supposed to strike him down in the moment where the enemy's at his lowest guard, supposed to take that weapon and bring him down before the worst should happen.
The worst is still happening, his hands are still gripping her thighs, and this time she screams at his touch, she breaks away but her voice is soft as the wingbeat of a moth, as her beating heart tells her to breathe before it bursts from abhorrence. Inside Hayato starts to fight back against her, pushing her back, there's too much going on and she's yelling in her head because she doesn't know what she should, this isn't how it should end.
A hand that isn't hers seems to come into her vision, gloved in white with the fake ring on it. It is hers, she and Hayato both realize. Surprise ripples through the two of them, and a split-second's meeting is conferred to acknowledge that it indeed is not either of them that is moving them. But as they watch, the hand pulls out the gun on the pudgy man that is grinding himself desperately on her pelvis, and points the barrel right in the center of the target's sweaty forehead.
The bullet goes off point-blank, and skullbone shatters on Hayato as he surfaces at last. He sucks in breath after breath, each one punctuated by a bullet from a gun that somehow he's holding, and still firing. Vivacia has retreated to the back of his mind; the gig is up, as he can tell by the look in the dying Don Tomasino's eyes. With his other hand he rips off wig and fake chest pillows, and pulls the trigger until the clip is empty. The echo of shells tinkle like bells on the floor as they spin, then come to a stop.
He's breathing hard, and the deed is done. He stares at the disgusting body on the ground, blood and brain bits everywhere, and in a voice that isn't his, he murmurs to the sight, "As if I've watched over him all these years to let a pig like you defile my Hayato."
It's not Vivacia, he thinks as he slumps back against the wall, as far away from the pool of blood as he can. Vivacia is still in the back of his mind, glibbering into madness. He hopes he won't ever need a useless girl like her ever again, no matter how hard he and Reborn tried to cultivate her into a person, an alter personality in his mind. She was always too weak to survive in the mafia world, unequipped to deal with the decisions that had to be made to the detriment of other people.
She is still near though, the one that had spoken. He gets the feeling she's always been there, and that she's only surfaced strongly tonight. He gazes up at the moon as if it could tell him the answers to the uncertain sensations that flit through his mind: confusion, shame, dismay. He doesn't remember how he used to be a hitman before he met the Tenth, maybe because he doesn't want to remember the way he used to be able to ignore the direction other people's lives took or didn't take because of him. That selfish way of seeing the world had all taken a turn for the better when he'd met Tsuna.
He's still staring at the moon, the cooling, motionless form of Don Tomasino still lying several feet away, when there comes the sound of quick steps down the corridor. Wearily he struggles to his feet and lines up for another shot, only to see it's a very sober Yamamoto who's walking, no, striding towards him with those long steps of his.
"Signora?," he calls out prudently, and stops in front of her to peer at her face. He doesn't even give the body a glance as he takes her face in his, mops at the bits of gore that've peppered her front. "Gokudera?," he asks softly. "Gokudera, are you alright?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but at that very moment Yamamoto swipes the handkerchief over his lips, and he's drawn to the concentration in the other man's lion eyes. He shuts his mouth again, unable to speak, only to nod, gun dropping with a clatter to the floor.
Evidently this not a complete answer in Yamamoto's book, because he seizes Gokudera's face in his palms and starts giving him the kiss of his life. Gokudera, on the other hand, allows it for about five seconds before he realizes who it is, what he's doing, and how good it feels to have someone other than some sodding pervert push his lips on his. Then again, what Yamamoto is currently doing to him could also be considered harrassment.
He shoves the other away, shaking his hair out with one gloved hand. "What the hell!," he barks, and Yamamoto actually steps back at the ferociousness of his face. "I didn't give you the fucking permission to kiss me, and even if I wanted it you should ask a person first, don't you think? God, just because I look like a fucking girl -" At this point Yamamoto's laughing with relief, big guffaws of relief that have him leaning on the balcony for support. "What the hell is so funny?"
"You," the other man gasps. "You." And he reaches out and strokes Gokudera's cheek with one finger just because he can, and looks entirely too pleased with himself when all Gokudera does is slap it away irritably. He can compare the two touches in his mind, and he knows which one he'd prefer, as wrong as it sounded even to him.
"Yeah, what about me."
Yamamoto smiles against the macabre backdrop of blood on the floor and smeared on the walls, and picks up the fallen male-concealants and the gun. Then he brushes off Gokudera's hair so there aren't any white skull bits left, and offers his arm once more. "Let's go home, Signora," he murmurs in Gokudera's ear. When Gokudera shies away at the contact, Yamamoto's other hand tightens where it lies, on top of Gokudera's. He's reassured that snarky Gokudera is back, whereas he seemed to be mysteriously absent from the beginning of the night.
Gokudera, on the other hand, falls exhaustedly asleep on Yamamoto's shoulder on the ride home. It isn't a surprise to him that his dreams smell like the sickening mix of rain and smoke and white lilies, the brilliant blue pattern of wrapping paper, and the overarching tingle of piano chords above it all.
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