the roundabout retrieval of yamamoto takeshi.
Some of you might remember The Life and Death of Mister Honda which I wrote some time ago, featuring an amnesiac Yamamoto lost on the Great American continent. This is a sequel of sorts, an aftermath fic written from the perspective of our very own Gokudera Hayato.
The Ellen woman doesn't like him. She's perceptive; he thought so as soon as he met her, Yamamoto leaning against the counter with a winning smile, coaxing her into dropping the phone, and her eyes flicked to the flour they'd tracked in, his swelling lip. She looks at him, and stiffens like a deer catching his scent on the wind, sends her kids running in the opposite direction. He gets it. She's a woman holding down a tiny fort with a gun behind the counter and he's unwelcome. She likes Yamamoto. He hurt Yamamoto. If she had her way she'd board the little diner shut and shoot him into the open country.
Picture a backwater plot of land laid out by a divine hand and then forgotten about. On your way there, you pass a dozen empty stables, paddocks overrun with yellow grass. The roads are unsealed, the property fringed with forest. One trail to serve as both entrance and exit and nothing short of a robust SUV could navigate it, provided a visitor even spotted the dingy sign at the turnoff.
Gokudera doesn't know why anyone would want to live here. What he's seen of the place is as sparsely furnished as its inhabitants, air so cold it cuts on the way in, and everything pervaded by the atmosphere of constant exile.
He hates it, and maybe that's why it makes perfect sense when Yamamoto doesn't want to leave.
He hasn't called Tenth yet. The signal on his cell is strong and steady, a testament to Spanner's expertise. That's not the problem. The compact weight of it is comforting in his palm; this, at least, won't fail him. The problem is, there's no excuse. The line of Tenth's shoulders, rigid from breath-holding; he thinks about it all the time. Still, to ring and say, "I've got him, but-" feels too much like betrayal.
Missing. In the six months since Yamamoto entered that state of being, Gokudera's invented schematics to cope with a guardian who's captive, maimed or dead. He has no idea how to deal with a Yamamoto who doesn't want to be found.
The idiot hasn't said as much, of course. He hasn't said much of anything. It's there though, plain as day, when he adjusts the boy's awkward grip on his baseball bat, sashays around the kitchen in an apron. For him to be safe was the implausible, optimum outcome. He has his memories back now, healthy save the scar from the head trauma that landed him here, and Gokudera's starting to realise it's not simple at all.
There's mail on the fifth day. A draft whips up the corners of his blanket as he reaches for it, the envelope icon flashing at him moments after the alarm. He blinks blearily at the screen, but he's not such a coward that he doesn't open it.
Message received at 6.12AM: Gokudera, please check in.
He's composing a reply in his head with a fist against his eyes when there's the scrape of a stool as Yamamoto sits down and tilts him a shy look, rueful around the edges. Gokudera watches him, can't rouse his tongue enough to speak. His body's not infrangible; it's picked an arctic zone to burn out in, the green chill mouthing at ancient sores, licking them new.
"Sorry," Yamamoto says, and Gokudera wrestles back a sigh. He's intimately familiar with conversations that begin with apologies.
"It's just hard, you know? I-" he shifts in his seat - "Need a bit more time."
Gokudera nods slowly and doesn't ask, "How much more?" though he's tempted. The grin he gets in return is real, if tentative, like a small animal scared by a loud noise. He polishes off his plate so Yamamoto will take it and go away, isn't really surprised that he can't understand.
He's been living the same life since he was born.
In the end, the message he sends is almost identical to those he sent before he'd located Yamamoto, glad for once that the character limit leaves so much room for omission. As the week hastens away, Ellen doesn't exactly warm, but Gokudera doesn't think it's his imagination that the children don't scuttle so far anymore, peeking around doorframes with their enormous, matching eyes.
He doesn't try to act friendly. Early exposure to Lambo means he knows kids aren't breakable if held wrong, would cling to him like limpets if he let them. They're more obedient than he ever was, entertain themselves for hours at a stretch with sticks and dirt. Gokudera's childhood is a blight he'd rather crumple up and swallow than retell; he remembers anyway; how often he mistook smiles for promises. It makes him doubly careful not to. It's not his intention to damage them on purpose, but when he sees them trail Yamamoto, the three of them crowded around a dead spider, he knows there's no question that very shortly, he'll be hurting them in a deeper, more permanent way.
Too late to hope they won't become acclimated. They're vacuums for affection, hunkering endlessly after Mr. Honda's opinion on breakfast, the squabbles of glossy black beaks, holes on leaves; looking to him with a worshipful shine that their mother sometimes echoes.
The frosty conditions are only good for clearing his head. He seizes a handful of muffler and tells himself he isn't concerned about doing the right thing. His job is just to do what needs to be done.
He's contemplating this, spitting sparks into a subzero night when Yamamoto touches his elbow like a shadow made flesh. He curses, stomps out the wasted cigarette and turns to yell. Yamamoto has a duffel slung over his shoulder, mouth pressed in a hard line, and the words die.
"Are you sure?" he asks instead. He doesn't think this is any crueler than a goodbye hug and an overdue, dishonest explanation, but he's long resigned himself to the fact that other people have a different set of scruples. By the time they board the plane, regrets will be useless, and a regretful guardian, even more so.
Yamamoto nods, a brief dip of the chin, shoulders half-lifting in a shrug. He's always been most eloquent when he's silent, and though it's hard to tell in the penetrating light of the hanger lamp, he seems calm, grounded. Gokudera doesn't bother asking again, fumbles his phone from his pocket with clumsy, gloved fingers.
"Call them," he says (call home), and pushes it into Yamamoto's hands.
The Ellen woman doesn't like him. She's perceptive; he thought so as soon as he met her, Yamamoto leaning against the counter with a winning smile, coaxing her into dropping the phone, and her eyes flicked to the flour they'd tracked in, his swelling lip. She looks at him, and stiffens like a deer catching his scent on the wind, sends her kids running in the opposite direction. He gets it. She's a woman holding down a tiny fort with a gun behind the counter and he's unwelcome. She likes Yamamoto. He hurt Yamamoto. If she had her way she'd board the little diner shut and shoot him into the open country.
Picture a backwater plot of land laid out by a divine hand and then forgotten about. On your way there, you pass a dozen empty stables, paddocks overrun with yellow grass. The roads are unsealed, the property fringed with forest. One trail to serve as both entrance and exit and nothing short of a robust SUV could navigate it, provided a visitor even spotted the dingy sign at the turnoff.
Gokudera doesn't know why anyone would want to live here. What he's seen of the place is as sparsely furnished as its inhabitants, air so cold it cuts on the way in, and everything pervaded by the atmosphere of constant exile.
He hates it, and maybe that's why it makes perfect sense when Yamamoto doesn't want to leave.
He hasn't called Tenth yet. The signal on his cell is strong and steady, a testament to Spanner's expertise. That's not the problem. The compact weight of it is comforting in his palm; this, at least, won't fail him. The problem is, there's no excuse. The line of Tenth's shoulders, rigid from breath-holding; he thinks about it all the time. Still, to ring and say, "I've got him, but-" feels too much like betrayal.
Missing. In the six months since Yamamoto entered that state of being, Gokudera's invented schematics to cope with a guardian who's captive, maimed or dead. He has no idea how to deal with a Yamamoto who doesn't want to be found.
The idiot hasn't said as much, of course. He hasn't said much of anything. It's there though, plain as day, when he adjusts the boy's awkward grip on his baseball bat, sashays around the kitchen in an apron. For him to be safe was the implausible, optimum outcome. He has his memories back now, healthy save the scar from the head trauma that landed him here, and Gokudera's starting to realise it's not simple at all.
There's mail on the fifth day. A draft whips up the corners of his blanket as he reaches for it, the envelope icon flashing at him moments after the alarm. He blinks blearily at the screen, but he's not such a coward that he doesn't open it.
Message received at 6.12AM: Gokudera, please check in.
He's composing a reply in his head with a fist against his eyes when there's the scrape of a stool as Yamamoto sits down and tilts him a shy look, rueful around the edges. Gokudera watches him, can't rouse his tongue enough to speak. His body's not infrangible; it's picked an arctic zone to burn out in, the green chill mouthing at ancient sores, licking them new.
"Sorry," Yamamoto says, and Gokudera wrestles back a sigh. He's intimately familiar with conversations that begin with apologies.
"It's just hard, you know? I-" he shifts in his seat - "Need a bit more time."
Gokudera nods slowly and doesn't ask, "How much more?" though he's tempted. The grin he gets in return is real, if tentative, like a small animal scared by a loud noise. He polishes off his plate so Yamamoto will take it and go away, isn't really surprised that he can't understand.
He's been living the same life since he was born.
In the end, the message he sends is almost identical to those he sent before he'd located Yamamoto, glad for once that the character limit leaves so much room for omission. As the week hastens away, Ellen doesn't exactly warm, but Gokudera doesn't think it's his imagination that the children don't scuttle so far anymore, peeking around doorframes with their enormous, matching eyes.
He doesn't try to act friendly. Early exposure to Lambo means he knows kids aren't breakable if held wrong, would cling to him like limpets if he let them. They're more obedient than he ever was, entertain themselves for hours at a stretch with sticks and dirt. Gokudera's childhood is a blight he'd rather crumple up and swallow than retell; he remembers anyway; how often he mistook smiles for promises. It makes him doubly careful not to. It's not his intention to damage them on purpose, but when he sees them trail Yamamoto, the three of them crowded around a dead spider, he knows there's no question that very shortly, he'll be hurting them in a deeper, more permanent way.
Too late to hope they won't become acclimated. They're vacuums for affection, hunkering endlessly after Mr. Honda's opinion on breakfast, the squabbles of glossy black beaks, holes on leaves; looking to him with a worshipful shine that their mother sometimes echoes.
The frosty conditions are only good for clearing his head. He seizes a handful of muffler and tells himself he isn't concerned about doing the right thing. His job is just to do what needs to be done.
He's contemplating this, spitting sparks into a subzero night when Yamamoto touches his elbow like a shadow made flesh. He curses, stomps out the wasted cigarette and turns to yell. Yamamoto has a duffel slung over his shoulder, mouth pressed in a hard line, and the words die.
"Are you sure?" he asks instead. He doesn't think this is any crueler than a goodbye hug and an overdue, dishonest explanation, but he's long resigned himself to the fact that other people have a different set of scruples. By the time they board the plane, regrets will be useless, and a regretful guardian, even more so.
Yamamoto nods, a brief dip of the chin, shoulders half-lifting in a shrug. He's always been most eloquent when he's silent, and though it's hard to tell in the penetrating light of the hanger lamp, he seems calm, grounded. Gokudera doesn't bother asking again, fumbles his phone from his pocket with clumsy, gloved fingers.
"Call them," he says (call home), and pushes it into Yamamoto's hands.