[fanfic] Death of a Salesman
Title: Death of a Salesman
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Foul language, spoilers for Future Arc.
Prompt: I - 56. Gokudera/Ryohei - comfort; "I drink coffee like water."
Word count: 1799
Summary: Heaven on Earth is usually contained in the places you least expect.
Author Notes: Failure. This is made of FAILURE. I killed this prompt entirely. I are sorry, but here, have interesting fic ANYWAY.
The future sucked. It wasn’t the particular acrid nausea-inducing brand of failing a test he studied all night for, but was instead the brand that made him choke on the taste of bitter defeat and metallic shards of insufficient strength. It was to that clinging brand that Gokudera tipped his proverbial hat, lit up in a blaze of glory and a fog of lukewarm mortality. But it’s his own type of relief that no one here tends to bother him in these moods, leave him to simmer untended in his boiling rage. And he puts the cigarette to his lips and lights up, refuses to count the pile of smashed remains that forms an all new abstract monument to nicotine addiction. So he reads, flips through report after report with all the fervor of a drowning man, determined to find the cause of imbalance and wipe it out in the remaining moments of his sanity. What he finds is chilling and makes his heart clench with misery and self-loathing.
They found the body in pieces, splattered against walls and still smoking with edges of furious flames.
The body was so disfigured and misshapen that dental records where useless.
The funeral was held with a closed casket, borne with grim determination through the ruin of everything they held dear.
His blood is ice and the papers fall from coppelia fingers, scattered about the floor in a maelstrom of shattered hopes and dreams. There is nothing they can do but deny everything, hide the secret with the skeletons of generations past, and pray that no one looks into the dearly departed’s demise. But they will and Gokudera knows it, feels it in his bones with the conviction of a death row convict at his last meal.
Suddenly his favorite brand tastes like ash on his tongue and makes his face stretch lazily into scowl. Fingers flick and ash fly to wink into concrete grey, and it takes a single thought to stomp out the lingering traces of orange glow.
He doesn’t want to think about how the color matches the boy down the hall or how it blends into oblivion without a care in the world.
The coffin was buried in the woods that hide their last base.
No one visits it without bringing their most useful weapon and a backup supporter, and the grave is slowly being absorbed by the green of Japan.
When the air becomes too stifling for him to take he ends up screaming in frustration and pulling on his belt of boxes while he walks. If there is no rest to be found in data and logic, then Gokudera will take it in sweat and effort. The halls are silent; still in the throe of slumber, and his always stylish shoes make a strange drumming that echoes like a heartbeat in his ears. It doesn’t take him much concentration to make it from his older self’s appointed room to his ultimate goal and for once he is happy to accept the mind-numbing task at nothing more than facevalue. But he isn’t alone tonight, not if the sound of flesh hitting leather is any indication. Gokudera doesn’t bother to see who it is before he slinks in, cigarette halfway to his mouth before he notices it and a snarky comment hanging in the silence.
“Oy, do you have to be so fucking loud?” The pounding stops and if Gokudera was the sort to actually use the manners his mother was so proud of he might feel guilty for ruining the other’s solitary training.
“Octopus head! Here for EXTREME training?” It’s the volume that snaps him to the real world, that irritating presence that reminds Gokudera why it is he rather hates the people his Boss surrounds himself with. It puts a scowl even further on his face, taints the crisp snap of lighter to paper edge with a tremor of frustrated wrath.
“No, I’m here to watch you so I can take notes on how to be an idiot.” He scoffs, breathes in that taste of fire and explosives that he loves so much, and Gokudera feels older than he has a right to be. This isn’t the conversation he thought he’d ever have, tainted with sarcastic wit and the weight of responsibility that wouldn’t rightfully be his for near ten years. It might be better if he had slept since Bianchi took over his training, would have helped if his dreams weren’t full of blood on his hands that won’t wash off even when he wakes.
There’s warmth on his forehead and Gokudera doesn’t even remember sitting down or when Sasagawa got close enough to breathe down his neck. He doesn’t remember why the lights are so bright or why the world is spinning clockwise and then counterclockwise thrice in one second. None of it makes sense, no method in the patterns of entropy or rhythm in the score. His hands go up and he can hear twin hearts beat a discordant melody. His eyes close and he wishes he could sleep, dream of things better and brighter than what he can have.
“Are you all right to the extreme Octopus Head?” His pillow vibrates somewhere behind his left ear, a deep rumbling that forms a counterpoint to Sasagawa’s scratchy bass, and he wonders if maybe this is the dream and that the dream is his reality. If it were true than he would rather never wake up, if the pattern on the ceiling could merge with the spinning formulas and equations that compose his explosive trademark. “OY! OCTOPUS HEAD!”
“What Lawn Head? Do you HAVE to be that loud this early in the morning?” It’s easy to lift a hand to smack the other on his nose, far too easy to fumble for a cigarette while casually using the other as a backrest.
It might be because he’s tired of thinking and worn out by the mere thought of exerting himself right about now, part because Gokudera has come to the conclusion that he’s hallucinating to stop himself from thinking about unnecessary things. He’s Italian, and that makes him culturally disposed to no longer give two fucks about the situation at hand. If he was a lesser Italian, and most likely not from Sicily, Gokudera would have thrown up his hands with a heartfelt ‘ciao’ and walked off into the sunset. But since he’s Sicilian and thus has too much manly pride for his Smoking Bomb and Storm Guardian status, Gokudera Hayato settles for doing the next best thing.
Ignoring that this is even happening is the best idea Gokudera has even had.
“-topus Head? OY, OCTOPUS HEAD! CAN YOU HEAR ME TO THE EXTREME?!”
…Or not.
When he wakes up again it is to the smell of sweat and explosive smoke, a mix that does more to set him at ease than the best aromatherapy. Never mind that he’s on his back in a room that is unfamiliar (it’s not really, but he doesn’t want to admit the reason for the familiarity quite yet), he’s as comfortable as a cat in a sunspot. It’s warm and safe, and Gokudera can’t help but stretch until his bones pop with a satisfying series of crackles. The fact that there is someone next to him and providing most of his considerable and wonderful warmth is beyond him.
For there is a coffeemaker in this room, and it is calling his name.
Why his favorite coffee is in this room that isn’t his will be the first conundrum to be solved. But only to be solved after coffee. His body moves lethargically to sit at the end of the bed in order to stare better, waits for water to boil and the sound of dripping to fill the room. Gokudera’s single minded fixation could nearly qualify as a religious ceremony, and he’s so enraptured that he doesn’t notice when the person from before begins to stir. He doesn’t move when the other uses his head as a chinrest to see exactly what Gokudera is up to.
“Extreme coffee?” It’s a bad thing when your conversational partner’s default volume makes you want earplugs, but for once Gokudera will give the other teenager some credit and leave it be.
“Yes.”
“You extremely look like you need it.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re all right to the extreme?”
“Coffee.”
“EXTREMELY ALL RIGHT!”
They sit in silence for awhile, nothing but the sound and smell of fresh coffee to defuse the situation. It’s all rather relaxing, a welcome distraction from the records he’s memorizing for the sake of their present past. Gokudera doesn’t even pay any attention to the hand reaching past him to pour a mug for him. He relishes the taste and waits for the caffeine to hit his brain like a freight train, makes it through two mugs in the space of time it takes him to make a batch of rocket bombs.
“Is it that extremely good?”
“I drink coffee like water, what do you think dumbass?”
Sometime around the sixth cup, it occurs to Gokudera that this is his favorite brand of coffee and he’s drinking it while Sasagawa Ryohei is wrapped around him like he’s something fragile and precious. And so he takes the logical route, slams his head into Ryohei’s chin and staggers off the bed with mug in hand. “What the hell are you DOING?”
“EXTREME BONDING!” His nose is bleeding and clearly he doesn’t care, stares after Gokudera with his usual stupid grin and patiently waits.
“The HELL is that for! Lawn Head, what kind of idiot are you to DO that?”
“Kyoko used to be like that, and so I extremely took care of it!”
“I AM NOT A GIRL LAWN HEAD!” He pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand that isn’t holding his precious coffee and tries his best to not stuff the other full of dynamite and make a new brand of bottle rocket. “Don’t DO THAT!”
“I KNOW THAT TO THE EXTREME!”
“THEN WHAT’D YOU DO THAT FOR IDIOT?!”
“IT WAS EXTREMELY COMFORTABLE!”
“THE HELL- you know what? I don’t want to know. I’m just going to take my coffee and go somewhere that makes sense.”
The future sucked. People where crazy, coffee took too long, beds belonging to other people were sinfully comfortable, and Gokudera was surrounded by idiots. And when he lights up a cigarette the halls are filled with smoke that make his coffee taste like sludge, leading to a rather aggravated Storm Guardian. But it’s a new day and there’s a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before, a jaunty sort of walk that he hadn’t managed in quite some time. So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad after all.
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Foul language, spoilers for Future Arc.
Prompt: I - 56. Gokudera/Ryohei - comfort; "I drink coffee like water."
Word count: 1799
Summary: Heaven on Earth is usually contained in the places you least expect.
Author Notes: Failure. This is made of FAILURE. I killed this prompt entirely. I are sorry, but here, have interesting fic ANYWAY.
The future sucked. It wasn’t the particular acrid nausea-inducing brand of failing a test he studied all night for, but was instead the brand that made him choke on the taste of bitter defeat and metallic shards of insufficient strength. It was to that clinging brand that Gokudera tipped his proverbial hat, lit up in a blaze of glory and a fog of lukewarm mortality. But it’s his own type of relief that no one here tends to bother him in these moods, leave him to simmer untended in his boiling rage. And he puts the cigarette to his lips and lights up, refuses to count the pile of smashed remains that forms an all new abstract monument to nicotine addiction. So he reads, flips through report after report with all the fervor of a drowning man, determined to find the cause of imbalance and wipe it out in the remaining moments of his sanity. What he finds is chilling and makes his heart clench with misery and self-loathing.
They found the body in pieces, splattered against walls and still smoking with edges of furious flames.
The body was so disfigured and misshapen that dental records where useless.
The funeral was held with a closed casket, borne with grim determination through the ruin of everything they held dear.
His blood is ice and the papers fall from coppelia fingers, scattered about the floor in a maelstrom of shattered hopes and dreams. There is nothing they can do but deny everything, hide the secret with the skeletons of generations past, and pray that no one looks into the dearly departed’s demise. But they will and Gokudera knows it, feels it in his bones with the conviction of a death row convict at his last meal.
Suddenly his favorite brand tastes like ash on his tongue and makes his face stretch lazily into scowl. Fingers flick and ash fly to wink into concrete grey, and it takes a single thought to stomp out the lingering traces of orange glow.
He doesn’t want to think about how the color matches the boy down the hall or how it blends into oblivion without a care in the world.
The coffin was buried in the woods that hide their last base.
No one visits it without bringing their most useful weapon and a backup supporter, and the grave is slowly being absorbed by the green of Japan.
When the air becomes too stifling for him to take he ends up screaming in frustration and pulling on his belt of boxes while he walks. If there is no rest to be found in data and logic, then Gokudera will take it in sweat and effort. The halls are silent; still in the throe of slumber, and his always stylish shoes make a strange drumming that echoes like a heartbeat in his ears. It doesn’t take him much concentration to make it from his older self’s appointed room to his ultimate goal and for once he is happy to accept the mind-numbing task at nothing more than facevalue. But he isn’t alone tonight, not if the sound of flesh hitting leather is any indication. Gokudera doesn’t bother to see who it is before he slinks in, cigarette halfway to his mouth before he notices it and a snarky comment hanging in the silence.
“Oy, do you have to be so fucking loud?” The pounding stops and if Gokudera was the sort to actually use the manners his mother was so proud of he might feel guilty for ruining the other’s solitary training.
“Octopus head! Here for EXTREME training?” It’s the volume that snaps him to the real world, that irritating presence that reminds Gokudera why it is he rather hates the people his Boss surrounds himself with. It puts a scowl even further on his face, taints the crisp snap of lighter to paper edge with a tremor of frustrated wrath.
“No, I’m here to watch you so I can take notes on how to be an idiot.” He scoffs, breathes in that taste of fire and explosives that he loves so much, and Gokudera feels older than he has a right to be. This isn’t the conversation he thought he’d ever have, tainted with sarcastic wit and the weight of responsibility that wouldn’t rightfully be his for near ten years. It might be better if he had slept since Bianchi took over his training, would have helped if his dreams weren’t full of blood on his hands that won’t wash off even when he wakes.
There’s warmth on his forehead and Gokudera doesn’t even remember sitting down or when Sasagawa got close enough to breathe down his neck. He doesn’t remember why the lights are so bright or why the world is spinning clockwise and then counterclockwise thrice in one second. None of it makes sense, no method in the patterns of entropy or rhythm in the score. His hands go up and he can hear twin hearts beat a discordant melody. His eyes close and he wishes he could sleep, dream of things better and brighter than what he can have.
“Are you all right to the extreme Octopus Head?” His pillow vibrates somewhere behind his left ear, a deep rumbling that forms a counterpoint to Sasagawa’s scratchy bass, and he wonders if maybe this is the dream and that the dream is his reality. If it were true than he would rather never wake up, if the pattern on the ceiling could merge with the spinning formulas and equations that compose his explosive trademark. “OY! OCTOPUS HEAD!”
“What Lawn Head? Do you HAVE to be that loud this early in the morning?” It’s easy to lift a hand to smack the other on his nose, far too easy to fumble for a cigarette while casually using the other as a backrest.
It might be because he’s tired of thinking and worn out by the mere thought of exerting himself right about now, part because Gokudera has come to the conclusion that he’s hallucinating to stop himself from thinking about unnecessary things. He’s Italian, and that makes him culturally disposed to no longer give two fucks about the situation at hand. If he was a lesser Italian, and most likely not from Sicily, Gokudera would have thrown up his hands with a heartfelt ‘ciao’ and walked off into the sunset. But since he’s Sicilian and thus has too much manly pride for his Smoking Bomb and Storm Guardian status, Gokudera Hayato settles for doing the next best thing.
Ignoring that this is even happening is the best idea Gokudera has even had.
“-topus Head? OY, OCTOPUS HEAD! CAN YOU HEAR ME TO THE EXTREME?!”
…Or not.
When he wakes up again it is to the smell of sweat and explosive smoke, a mix that does more to set him at ease than the best aromatherapy. Never mind that he’s on his back in a room that is unfamiliar (it’s not really, but he doesn’t want to admit the reason for the familiarity quite yet), he’s as comfortable as a cat in a sunspot. It’s warm and safe, and Gokudera can’t help but stretch until his bones pop with a satisfying series of crackles. The fact that there is someone next to him and providing most of his considerable and wonderful warmth is beyond him.
For there is a coffeemaker in this room, and it is calling his name.
Why his favorite coffee is in this room that isn’t his will be the first conundrum to be solved. But only to be solved after coffee. His body moves lethargically to sit at the end of the bed in order to stare better, waits for water to boil and the sound of dripping to fill the room. Gokudera’s single minded fixation could nearly qualify as a religious ceremony, and he’s so enraptured that he doesn’t notice when the person from before begins to stir. He doesn’t move when the other uses his head as a chinrest to see exactly what Gokudera is up to.
“Extreme coffee?” It’s a bad thing when your conversational partner’s default volume makes you want earplugs, but for once Gokudera will give the other teenager some credit and leave it be.
“Yes.”
“You extremely look like you need it.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you’re all right to the extreme?”
“Coffee.”
“EXTREMELY ALL RIGHT!”
They sit in silence for awhile, nothing but the sound and smell of fresh coffee to defuse the situation. It’s all rather relaxing, a welcome distraction from the records he’s memorizing for the sake of their present past. Gokudera doesn’t even pay any attention to the hand reaching past him to pour a mug for him. He relishes the taste and waits for the caffeine to hit his brain like a freight train, makes it through two mugs in the space of time it takes him to make a batch of rocket bombs.
“Is it that extremely good?”
“I drink coffee like water, what do you think dumbass?”
Sometime around the sixth cup, it occurs to Gokudera that this is his favorite brand of coffee and he’s drinking it while Sasagawa Ryohei is wrapped around him like he’s something fragile and precious. And so he takes the logical route, slams his head into Ryohei’s chin and staggers off the bed with mug in hand. “What the hell are you DOING?”
“EXTREME BONDING!” His nose is bleeding and clearly he doesn’t care, stares after Gokudera with his usual stupid grin and patiently waits.
“The HELL is that for! Lawn Head, what kind of idiot are you to DO that?”
“Kyoko used to be like that, and so I extremely took care of it!”
“I AM NOT A GIRL LAWN HEAD!” He pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand that isn’t holding his precious coffee and tries his best to not stuff the other full of dynamite and make a new brand of bottle rocket. “Don’t DO THAT!”
“I KNOW THAT TO THE EXTREME!”
“THEN WHAT’D YOU DO THAT FOR IDIOT?!”
“IT WAS EXTREMELY COMFORTABLE!”
“THE HELL- you know what? I don’t want to know. I’m just going to take my coffee and go somewhere that makes sense.”
The future sucked. People where crazy, coffee took too long, beds belonging to other people were sinfully comfortable, and Gokudera was surrounded by idiots. And when he lights up a cigarette the halls are filled with smoke that make his coffee taste like sludge, leading to a rather aggravated Storm Guardian. But it’s a new day and there’s a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before, a jaunty sort of walk that he hadn’t managed in quite some time. So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad after all.