fic: white zinfandel
Title: White Zinfandel
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: onesided 2759, aka the one where Gokudera doesn’t love him.
Rating/Genre: T/Angst/Romance
Summary: The first time Tsuna drinks wine, it tastes as bitter as death and love that was never meant to be. (Godfatheresque.)
Part I
It’s the color of dreams. Pale rose saturated with gold undertones. It smells faintly like grapes and raspberries. It swirls in a perfect eclipse in his glass, and it slides down like raw emotion.
Tsuna decides at once that he isn’t a wine type of guy.
The first time Tsuna kisses Gokudera, the taste of the wine is still there. Gokudera looks startled, and then almost apologetic. Tsuna doesn’t stick around to get rejected.
It’s Sicily, so shots ring out staccato off walls and through glass all around him. He’s not in danger, though. The villa over the small vineyard is a good hiding place. Tsuna is reliving the time he shot two men in the head.
It’s funny, he thinks. It’s funny how he felt just as panicked about the killing - pulling the trigger bangbang - as he felt about grabbing Gokudera and
lips crashing none too gently, a gasp and
kissing him. It’s funny how watching those two Giglio Nero bastards fall to the floor with blood fountaining from their skulls was the best moment of his life, as much as he hated the feel of the gun in his hands. It’s funny how kissing Gokudera should have been the best moment of his life but it ended up being the worst.
The worst.
Tsuna sits on his balcony, shirt torn open at the front, that same bottle of wine by his knee. He laughs at it and kicks it through the balcony pillars into the courtyard below. It smashes.
Within moments the smell floats up to him and he associates it with love that was never meant to be.
”So you’ve shot them both. Now what do you do?”
Tsuna opens his mouth to answer. This is textbook mafia. Get the hell out of there.
“You get the hell out of there,” Dino says. “Don’t look anyone in the eye. Just walk out of there looking straight ahead and get into the car. We’ll send you away for a while until this blows over. I have a villa in Sicily that’s perfect.”
Tsuna says nothing, just fingers the unloaded .38 and waits.
“Gokudera will go with you, of course.”
Tsuna is wishing he had the .38 now as he watches the maid sweep up the glass. She’s a young thing, and she’s learned to do what’s expected of her, and do it quickly. The smell lingers, though.
“You shouldn’t go running off on your own.”
”Why not?”
“Because you’re Decimo. Someone will try to snatch you. Maybe even kill you.” There is a grim expression on young Gokudera’s face. “Alé!” he says softly, holding out his hand, palm up, for the younger boy to take.
Tsuna takes it, unfamiliar with this place that isn’t Japan, unfamiliar with a smiling Nono who insists Tsuna learn Italian and how to play with explosives. The guns will come later.
“Why not?” Tsuna scoffs.
“Because you’re Decimo,” Gokudera replies. “And it’s not entirely safe here.” He pulls the chord of the lamp in the corner.
“Alé... è ora di andare a dormire, capo.”
“Non che stanco,” he retorts. Gokudera frowns lightly, joins him on the balcony, leaning against the stone.
“Chiaverone said we could go back in a month, maybe.”
For once, Tsuna doesn’t care about how much longer it’ll be until Japan.
He tastes the bitter wine in his mouth and knows that Gokudera tastes it, too.