(no subject)
The first few times Gokudera met Yamamoto, he was surprised-surprised that the Tenth wanted such a lame baseball obsessed idiot in the famiglia, surprised aforementioned lame baseball obsessed idiot was strong enough and fast enough to dodge his dynamite, surprised the lame baseball obsessed idiot was idiot enough to want to be friends with him, surprised Yamamoto could surprise him so much.
And it wasn’t a one time thing; even years after their acquaintance, Yamamoto continued to surprise Gokudera, over and over and over, in between fights, during battles, through a dysfunctional friendship and something beyond.
Like the time when Gokudera dropped by Yamamoto’s house to inform him that Reborn wanted all the Vongola guardians at Tsuna’s house the next morning. He had kicked open the door to Yamamoto’s room, ready to tell him the news and inform him he was only doing this because Tsuna had asked-and found Yamamoto sitting cross-legged on his bed strumming a guitar.
The tune was unfamiliar but the vibrant chords were comforting and beautiful-Gokudera had always had a weak spot for music (he was an Italian through and through, after all, and could get drunk on music as easily as he could get drunk on alcohol).
“What the fuck,” he remembered saying. “Guitar?”
Yamamoto had laughed, yawned, put his instrument away. “Yeah, guitar,” he had replied, examining slightly red fingertips. “I know you like music. But I need to practice more-practice makes perfect, right?”
The next day Gokudera bought a piano for his apartment, all polished dark wood and smooth ivory keys-even though he got stomach cramps whenever he played. (After all, practice made perfect, right? And if he practiced enough the cramps would go away…right?)
Or the time when Gokudera spotted Yamamoto reading a how-to-speak-Italian book in Tsuna’s room instead of the algebra textbook he was suppose to be studying. “Idiot,” he had said, “Why the hell are you studying Italian when you have a math test tomorrow?”
“I want to understand everything you say,” Yamamoto had said, hiding a grin. “Sometimes you talk to me in Italian and I never know what you say-I’d like to know if you’re cursing at me or proclaiming your love to me..” He laughed and turned a page of the book carefully.
“Fucking idiot,” Gokudera had said in Italian, the words rolling off his tongue like silk against silk. “If I know you can understand Italian, why the hell will I proclaim my love to you in Italian?” he grumbled, strangely touched.
Or when Yamamoto followed Gokudera home the day the Tenth Vongola boss died-the day Tsuna died-and cried with him, refusing to leave even when Gokudera punched him hard on the jaw, even when Gokudera threatened him with dynamite and all the tortures he could possibly think of. I don’t want to lose you too, was his excuse. I need to see you alive; please, pleasepleaseplease, don’t kick me out Gokudera, don’t,--and he hugged Gokudera hard, head buried in Gokudera’s silver hair and hands fisted in Gokudera’s bloody clothes-and Gokudera was surprised because really, who went to him for comfort, he was all roughness and snarl, dynamite and smoke, no comfort at all.
Or that one moment in time when everything changed, when the world shifted and suddenly Gokudera started appreciating Yamamoto’s strength always backing him up, Yamamoto’s faith always unwavering, Yamamoto’s bright eyes and brighter smiles and Yamamoto’s warmth.
Gokudera stares at the leather bound notebook in front of him in confusion-he is surprised yet again, which shouldn’t really be happening, seeing as he and Yamamoto have been partners for years now, to the point where neither is mentioned without the other and they frigging live together. On the front of the notebook there are words in Yamamoto’s blocky writing: ‘Yamamoto’s sketchbook’, it says.
‘the hell?, Gokudera thinks. Yamamoto draws?
He flips open the page and his eyes widen. It is a picture of Gokudera grinning his face off at Tsuna-there is even a tiny speech bubble that says ‘Tenth! I love you!’ in it next to his face, and he looks like a dork. Gokudera frowns, turns the next page-he finds a picture of him smoking under a tree on a hot summer day. He is sprawled out on the grass, long limbs stretched out and a handfuls of dynamite tossed haphazardly beside him, a thin trail of smoke whispering through the imagined summer wind. Gokudera frowns, flips through the pages quickly, admires the swift lines and sees the progress Yamamoto makes (the pictures get better and better, more and more realistic).
There is Gokudera, glaring at some invisible enemy, hands on smooth sticks of dynamite and a fierce scowl on his face-there he is again, drinking a cup of coffee or hot chocolate, and another one of him in a suit doing up his tie-there he is grinning shyly at Tsuna, and on the next page a picture of him chasing after Lambo furiously-and there, there he is after a major battle, bloody and exhausted, and then the pictures only get darker; a frowning Gokudera even in sleep, Gokudera typing something on his computer with a fierce look of concentration on his face, Gokudera hauling a bloody body (who’s it is, he can’t really tell), Gokudera at Tsuna’s funeral-
And then there’s finally a picture with the artist himself in it-Yamamoto and Gokudera are walking side by side, with frowns and weapons and killing intent in their eyes. ‘Once upon a time, the Tenth Vongola boss had two right hand men’, Yamamoto had written underneath. ‘And one of them was in love with the other.’
He shuts the book quickly and breathes heavily, confused and surprised, damnit, because if this isn’t some sort of love confession he doesn’t know what is, and Gokudera’s definitely not that dense. He opens the book again, flips to the first empty page he can find.
Gokudera surprises Yamamoto a lot, to the point it hardly surprises Yamamoto when Gokudera surprises him (and that makes sense in a strange, warped way)-because Gokudera’s just unpredictable like that, hostile one moment and strangely caring the next, sometimes angry and happy and annoyed all at once, able to switch emotions within seconds.
Like the time he walked in on Yamamoto playing the guitar and looked (and acted) annoyed-Yamamoto had wondered if his playing was really that horrible-but then invited Yamamoto over the next week, saying that he had found an interesting guitar-piano duet and wanted to know how it sounded. (And then Yamamoto found out that Gokudera had written the piece-just for him!-and then Yamamoto was really, really happy.)
Or the time when Gokudera found Yamamoto studying Italian instead of algebra and seemed to think what Yamamoto was doing was pretty insensibly, but after that, started talking to Yamamoto in Italian more and more-and sometimes Gokudera rambled to him in Italian so fast that Yamamoto couldn’t catch more than a couple words at a time but he was sure Gokudera had said something along the lines of ‘I love you’ and ’baseball idiot’ during some part of his rambling. Of course Gokudera denied everything when asked, but he told Yamamoto to shut up and learn Italian faster so he could understand everything Gokudera said no matter how fast he said it.
And the time Gokudera let Yamamoto hug him after Tsuna’s death, let Yamamoto stay at his apartment-and the night after that, when Gokudera didn’t even say anything when Yamamoto stayed at his apartment again-and the night after that, and the night after that, until Gokudera finally told Yamamoto ‘Stop being so fucking annoying and move your stuff here, it’s more convenient, don’t forget your guitar,’-and he ended up moving into Gokudera’s apartment permanently.
And then there was that day, that day when Gokudera suddenly turned to him and said “We’re partners, don’t die on me or I’ll fucking kill you”, and Yamamoto was so surprised that he immediately replied, “I won’t, unless you die on me first,” and from then on they watched each others’ backs even more carefully than before.
Yamamoto blinks once in surprise at the small stick of dynamite on his drawing book and wonders briefly whether or not it is a bad sign.
…Gokudera isn’t threatening him or trying to imply he’ll kill Yamamoto because of the drawings inside, is he? He hopes fervently Gokudera is just telling him that he looked at the journal-which was Yamamoto’s intention in the first place. He picks up the smooth red explosive and rubs at it thoughtfully with one hand before placing it carefully on the kitchen counter, glancing back at Gokudera.
The aforementioned silver haired boy snores behind him, sprawled out on a couch-Yamamoto wonders if he’s faking it. He turns back to pick up his journal, sees that a corner of one page is folded in and turns to that page, and grins.
There is a quickly drawn sketch of Yamamoto (and it’s not half bad; apparently Gokudera is an artist as well as a musician). Yamamoto is grinning in a suit, arm flung around another figure. The other figure is messier, has no apparent face, so Yamamoto draws Gokudera’s face in himself, with a wide, happy grin and a speech bubble next to him. ‘Yamamoto! I love you!’ he writes in the speech bubble, laughing to himself.
“L'amo, l'idiota di baseball,” Gokudera growls behind him. He pitched his voice higher. “Not ‘Yamamoto! I love you!’-that just sounds lame. And I already look like a dork in that picture.”
Yamamoto laughs again and erases the text. ‘L’amo, l’idiota di baseball,’ he writes in the speech bubble-I love you, baseball idiot-and adds a speech bubble next to his own head so he can write ‘Gokudera! I love you!’ in it. He elbows Gokudera playfully, tugs on a strand of silver hair, winds the strand around his fingertips like he always wanted to do (and only did when Gokudera was asleep before).
“And you don’t look like a dork. You just look happy.” The moment is strangely sappy, too sappy, sugar sweet like cotton candy, but both of them have been deprived of sweetness for too long to care that much.
Somehow, Yamamoto’s not exactly surprised when Gokudera surprises him by suddenly appearing next to him ten years younger than he should be and ready to save the world, just as Gokudera is surprised but not that surprised when he finds himself in looking at a ten-years-younger Yamamoto in a world and time where everything was almost perfect and barely manages to get a sentence in before Yamamoto runs off shouting something about helping Gokudera save the world.
Or something along the lines of that.
Once upon a time, the Tenth Vongola boss had two right hand men, and they were deeply and irrevocably in love with each other.
And it wasn’t a one time thing; even years after their acquaintance, Yamamoto continued to surprise Gokudera, over and over and over, in between fights, during battles, through a dysfunctional friendship and something beyond.
Like the time when Gokudera dropped by Yamamoto’s house to inform him that Reborn wanted all the Vongola guardians at Tsuna’s house the next morning. He had kicked open the door to Yamamoto’s room, ready to tell him the news and inform him he was only doing this because Tsuna had asked-and found Yamamoto sitting cross-legged on his bed strumming a guitar.
The tune was unfamiliar but the vibrant chords were comforting and beautiful-Gokudera had always had a weak spot for music (he was an Italian through and through, after all, and could get drunk on music as easily as he could get drunk on alcohol).
“What the fuck,” he remembered saying. “Guitar?”
Yamamoto had laughed, yawned, put his instrument away. “Yeah, guitar,” he had replied, examining slightly red fingertips. “I know you like music. But I need to practice more-practice makes perfect, right?”
The next day Gokudera bought a piano for his apartment, all polished dark wood and smooth ivory keys-even though he got stomach cramps whenever he played. (After all, practice made perfect, right? And if he practiced enough the cramps would go away…right?)
Or the time when Gokudera spotted Yamamoto reading a how-to-speak-Italian book in Tsuna’s room instead of the algebra textbook he was suppose to be studying. “Idiot,” he had said, “Why the hell are you studying Italian when you have a math test tomorrow?”
“I want to understand everything you say,” Yamamoto had said, hiding a grin. “Sometimes you talk to me in Italian and I never know what you say-I’d like to know if you’re cursing at me or proclaiming your love to me..” He laughed and turned a page of the book carefully.
“Fucking idiot,” Gokudera had said in Italian, the words rolling off his tongue like silk against silk. “If I know you can understand Italian, why the hell will I proclaim my love to you in Italian?” he grumbled, strangely touched.
Or when Yamamoto followed Gokudera home the day the Tenth Vongola boss died-the day Tsuna died-and cried with him, refusing to leave even when Gokudera punched him hard on the jaw, even when Gokudera threatened him with dynamite and all the tortures he could possibly think of. I don’t want to lose you too, was his excuse. I need to see you alive; please, pleasepleaseplease, don’t kick me out Gokudera, don’t,--and he hugged Gokudera hard, head buried in Gokudera’s silver hair and hands fisted in Gokudera’s bloody clothes-and Gokudera was surprised because really, who went to him for comfort, he was all roughness and snarl, dynamite and smoke, no comfort at all.
Or that one moment in time when everything changed, when the world shifted and suddenly Gokudera started appreciating Yamamoto’s strength always backing him up, Yamamoto’s faith always unwavering, Yamamoto’s bright eyes and brighter smiles and Yamamoto’s warmth.
Gokudera stares at the leather bound notebook in front of him in confusion-he is surprised yet again, which shouldn’t really be happening, seeing as he and Yamamoto have been partners for years now, to the point where neither is mentioned without the other and they frigging live together. On the front of the notebook there are words in Yamamoto’s blocky writing: ‘Yamamoto’s sketchbook’, it says.
‘the hell?, Gokudera thinks. Yamamoto draws?
He flips open the page and his eyes widen. It is a picture of Gokudera grinning his face off at Tsuna-there is even a tiny speech bubble that says ‘Tenth! I love you!’ in it next to his face, and he looks like a dork. Gokudera frowns, turns the next page-he finds a picture of him smoking under a tree on a hot summer day. He is sprawled out on the grass, long limbs stretched out and a handfuls of dynamite tossed haphazardly beside him, a thin trail of smoke whispering through the imagined summer wind. Gokudera frowns, flips through the pages quickly, admires the swift lines and sees the progress Yamamoto makes (the pictures get better and better, more and more realistic).
There is Gokudera, glaring at some invisible enemy, hands on smooth sticks of dynamite and a fierce scowl on his face-there he is again, drinking a cup of coffee or hot chocolate, and another one of him in a suit doing up his tie-there he is grinning shyly at Tsuna, and on the next page a picture of him chasing after Lambo furiously-and there, there he is after a major battle, bloody and exhausted, and then the pictures only get darker; a frowning Gokudera even in sleep, Gokudera typing something on his computer with a fierce look of concentration on his face, Gokudera hauling a bloody body (who’s it is, he can’t really tell), Gokudera at Tsuna’s funeral-
And then there’s finally a picture with the artist himself in it-Yamamoto and Gokudera are walking side by side, with frowns and weapons and killing intent in their eyes. ‘Once upon a time, the Tenth Vongola boss had two right hand men’, Yamamoto had written underneath. ‘And one of them was in love with the other.’
He shuts the book quickly and breathes heavily, confused and surprised, damnit, because if this isn’t some sort of love confession he doesn’t know what is, and Gokudera’s definitely not that dense. He opens the book again, flips to the first empty page he can find.
Gokudera surprises Yamamoto a lot, to the point it hardly surprises Yamamoto when Gokudera surprises him (and that makes sense in a strange, warped way)-because Gokudera’s just unpredictable like that, hostile one moment and strangely caring the next, sometimes angry and happy and annoyed all at once, able to switch emotions within seconds.
Like the time he walked in on Yamamoto playing the guitar and looked (and acted) annoyed-Yamamoto had wondered if his playing was really that horrible-but then invited Yamamoto over the next week, saying that he had found an interesting guitar-piano duet and wanted to know how it sounded. (And then Yamamoto found out that Gokudera had written the piece-just for him!-and then Yamamoto was really, really happy.)
Or the time when Gokudera found Yamamoto studying Italian instead of algebra and seemed to think what Yamamoto was doing was pretty insensibly, but after that, started talking to Yamamoto in Italian more and more-and sometimes Gokudera rambled to him in Italian so fast that Yamamoto couldn’t catch more than a couple words at a time but he was sure Gokudera had said something along the lines of ‘I love you’ and ’baseball idiot’ during some part of his rambling. Of course Gokudera denied everything when asked, but he told Yamamoto to shut up and learn Italian faster so he could understand everything Gokudera said no matter how fast he said it.
And the time Gokudera let Yamamoto hug him after Tsuna’s death, let Yamamoto stay at his apartment-and the night after that, when Gokudera didn’t even say anything when Yamamoto stayed at his apartment again-and the night after that, and the night after that, until Gokudera finally told Yamamoto ‘Stop being so fucking annoying and move your stuff here, it’s more convenient, don’t forget your guitar,’-and he ended up moving into Gokudera’s apartment permanently.
And then there was that day, that day when Gokudera suddenly turned to him and said “We’re partners, don’t die on me or I’ll fucking kill you”, and Yamamoto was so surprised that he immediately replied, “I won’t, unless you die on me first,” and from then on they watched each others’ backs even more carefully than before.
Yamamoto blinks once in surprise at the small stick of dynamite on his drawing book and wonders briefly whether or not it is a bad sign.
…Gokudera isn’t threatening him or trying to imply he’ll kill Yamamoto because of the drawings inside, is he? He hopes fervently Gokudera is just telling him that he looked at the journal-which was Yamamoto’s intention in the first place. He picks up the smooth red explosive and rubs at it thoughtfully with one hand before placing it carefully on the kitchen counter, glancing back at Gokudera.
The aforementioned silver haired boy snores behind him, sprawled out on a couch-Yamamoto wonders if he’s faking it. He turns back to pick up his journal, sees that a corner of one page is folded in and turns to that page, and grins.
There is a quickly drawn sketch of Yamamoto (and it’s not half bad; apparently Gokudera is an artist as well as a musician). Yamamoto is grinning in a suit, arm flung around another figure. The other figure is messier, has no apparent face, so Yamamoto draws Gokudera’s face in himself, with a wide, happy grin and a speech bubble next to him. ‘Yamamoto! I love you!’ he writes in the speech bubble, laughing to himself.
“L'amo, l'idiota di baseball,” Gokudera growls behind him. He pitched his voice higher. “Not ‘Yamamoto! I love you!’-that just sounds lame. And I already look like a dork in that picture.”
Yamamoto laughs again and erases the text. ‘L’amo, l’idiota di baseball,’ he writes in the speech bubble-I love you, baseball idiot-and adds a speech bubble next to his own head so he can write ‘Gokudera! I love you!’ in it. He elbows Gokudera playfully, tugs on a strand of silver hair, winds the strand around his fingertips like he always wanted to do (and only did when Gokudera was asleep before).
“And you don’t look like a dork. You just look happy.” The moment is strangely sappy, too sappy, sugar sweet like cotton candy, but both of them have been deprived of sweetness for too long to care that much.
Somehow, Yamamoto’s not exactly surprised when Gokudera surprises him by suddenly appearing next to him ten years younger than he should be and ready to save the world, just as Gokudera is surprised but not that surprised when he finds himself in looking at a ten-years-younger Yamamoto in a world and time where everything was almost perfect and barely manages to get a sentence in before Yamamoto runs off shouting something about helping Gokudera save the world.
Or something along the lines of that.
Once upon a time, the Tenth Vongola boss had two right hand men, and they were deeply and irrevocably in love with each other.