fanfiction || Petit Four [KHR], 1/1 (ficlet)
// ♪ rock you like a hurricane mix, track four (@ 30_ballads)
Title: 04 - Petit Four
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: A~T (language)
Genre: GEN (unless you count it as bittersweet Gokudera/Bombs?). Suspense/Drama.
Character: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera
Beta: It got a read-through by corelle? 8);;
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
[PROMPT: "4 Minutes" - Madonna (feat. Justin Timberlake & Timbaland)]
→ all 30_ballads installments
Notes: PROOF THAT I STILL WRITE KHR. AND GEN. SO THERE. :P
Totally unexpected fic, man - binge-listened to the song tonight, then the fic just kinda happened in about an hour. ... 8D;; This is the shortest installment I've done for 30_ballads so far (550 words), haha. SHORT FIC IS SHORT. I think I don't mind, though - I knew it was going to be short when the idea popped into my head. It's also kind of a FUCK YOU to the world today, hahaha. :|
AND YES, IT IS FOUR AM ON THE DOT. AHAHA ohgod I am such a dweeb. And I need sleep, clearly. ... I'll post this elsewhere later. ;A;/
--
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
But if I die tonight, at least I can say I did what I wanted to do
Tell me, how about you?
--from Madonna's 4 Minutes
« petit four »
The clock is tick-tick-ticking, each second coming a breath sooner than the last as the commodity of time speeds up and becomes a luxury too expensive to pull in the reins on. It’s like a rock rolling downhill, picking up momentum as gravity’s pull fuels its acceleration, the same way it pulls on the sweat beads forming across Gokudera’s forehead and pulls them into his eyes while he’s trying to pay attention to what he’s doing.
The red numbers are dropping, dropping under the weight of gravity and Gokudera’s sweat and fumbling fingers that are coated in axel grease-
He takes a deep breath, and tries hard not to think too hard about how each second he hesitates, the red-lettered seconds move down. Far more often, he assembles and detonates his own bombs - taking them apart and making them not explode; this is a new realm entirely. Especially since this is someone else’s modification on one of his personal models.
He’s not sure if it’s some sick kind of flattery, or a blatant message to him personally. But this is also a blatant attack against the Vongola - it’s in the half-demolished estate in Osaka, and Gokudera hasn’t had time to think - doesn’t want to think - about what might have happened to the Tenth in the first round of explosions.
Another deep breath, and it takes too long to get his giddy thought train back on the task on hand. Four minutes left. His world is narrowing down to a set of wires and switches and detonators. When one fails, there is at least one failsafe, if not more, to ensure the device does its job. He’s got to find them all, or-
No. Not the Tenth’s time to die. And he keeps working.
Three minutes, thirty seconds.
His hand slips, he loses a breath and two, three heartbeats before he realizes the bomb didn’t explode in his face.
Two minutes, forty-five seconds.
He cuts his finger on a wire, and now his blood is mixing with the sweat and grease on his hands. Is he even getting anywhere?
Two minutes.
Its wiry innards are spilling out of its slit metal belly and the red numbers are still going down down down tick tick tick, like it committed seppuku and somehow managed to survive. And it’s then that Gokudera wonders what it’s like to die.
And who’s going to protect the Tenth when you’re gone? - except, he already knows the answer to this because it’s also on his mind. He doesn’t deserve the consideration, except now all his reasons for stopping this fucking piece of shit are selfish.
Every. Last. One.
One minute, ten seconds.
His heart is pounding in his ears, and at this point, he’s swearing to all the gods he knows - Japanese, Roman, it doesn’t matter which ones - that he’s never going to build another goddamn explosive ever again, so long as he gets out alive.
Forty-five seconds, and he’s berating himself for sounding so weak.
This is a man’s job, and he’s going to do it like a man, or fail like a man.
… He won’t admit that those are tear tracks in the grime and blood on his hands - it’s just more sweat.
Five seconds. Tick - four. He smiles. I’m sorry. Three, two, one -
Click.
// ♪ end track.
… /RUNS AWAY~
Title: 04 - Petit Four
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: A~T (language)
Genre: GEN (unless you count it as bittersweet Gokudera/Bombs?). Suspense/Drama.
Character: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera
Beta: It got a read-through by corelle? 8);;
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
[PROMPT: "4 Minutes" - Madonna (feat. Justin Timberlake & Timbaland)]
→ all 30_ballads installments
Notes: PROOF THAT I STILL WRITE KHR. AND GEN. SO THERE. :P
Totally unexpected fic, man - binge-listened to the song tonight, then the fic just kinda happened in about an hour. ... 8D;; This is the shortest installment I've done for 30_ballads so far (550 words), haha. SHORT FIC IS SHORT. I think I don't mind, though - I knew it was going to be short when the idea popped into my head. It's also kind of a FUCK YOU to the world today, hahaha. :|
AND YES, IT IS FOUR AM ON THE DOT. AHAHA ohgod I am such a dweeb. And I need sleep, clearly. ... I'll post this elsewhere later. ;A;/
--
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
But if I die tonight, at least I can say I did what I wanted to do
Tell me, how about you?
--from Madonna's 4 Minutes
« petit four »
The clock is tick-tick-ticking, each second coming a breath sooner than the last as the commodity of time speeds up and becomes a luxury too expensive to pull in the reins on. It’s like a rock rolling downhill, picking up momentum as gravity’s pull fuels its acceleration, the same way it pulls on the sweat beads forming across Gokudera’s forehead and pulls them into his eyes while he’s trying to pay attention to what he’s doing.
The red numbers are dropping, dropping under the weight of gravity and Gokudera’s sweat and fumbling fingers that are coated in axel grease-
He takes a deep breath, and tries hard not to think too hard about how each second he hesitates, the red-lettered seconds move down. Far more often, he assembles and detonates his own bombs - taking them apart and making them not explode; this is a new realm entirely. Especially since this is someone else’s modification on one of his personal models.
He’s not sure if it’s some sick kind of flattery, or a blatant message to him personally. But this is also a blatant attack against the Vongola - it’s in the half-demolished estate in Osaka, and Gokudera hasn’t had time to think - doesn’t want to think - about what might have happened to the Tenth in the first round of explosions.
Another deep breath, and it takes too long to get his giddy thought train back on the task on hand. Four minutes left. His world is narrowing down to a set of wires and switches and detonators. When one fails, there is at least one failsafe, if not more, to ensure the device does its job. He’s got to find them all, or-
No. Not the Tenth’s time to die. And he keeps working.
Three minutes, thirty seconds.
His hand slips, he loses a breath and two, three heartbeats before he realizes the bomb didn’t explode in his face.
Two minutes, forty-five seconds.
He cuts his finger on a wire, and now his blood is mixing with the sweat and grease on his hands. Is he even getting anywhere?
Two minutes.
Its wiry innards are spilling out of its slit metal belly and the red numbers are still going down down down tick tick tick, like it committed seppuku and somehow managed to survive. And it’s then that Gokudera wonders what it’s like to die.
And who’s going to protect the Tenth when you’re gone? - except, he already knows the answer to this because it’s also on his mind. He doesn’t deserve the consideration, except now all his reasons for stopping this fucking piece of shit are selfish.
Every. Last. One.
One minute, ten seconds.
His heart is pounding in his ears, and at this point, he’s swearing to all the gods he knows - Japanese, Roman, it doesn’t matter which ones - that he’s never going to build another goddamn explosive ever again, so long as he gets out alive.
Forty-five seconds, and he’s berating himself for sounding so weak.
This is a man’s job, and he’s going to do it like a man, or fail like a man.
… He won’t admit that those are tear tracks in the grime and blood on his hands - it’s just more sweat.
Five seconds. Tick - four. He smiles. I’m sorry. Three, two, one -
Click.
// ♪ end track.
… /RUNS AWAY~