KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Hurricane
HURRICANE
Katekyo Hitman Reborn! ➝ Gokudera, Tsuna ➝ PG ➝ 901 words
He's lucky enough to pass through the eye of the storm.
Down the hallway. Door to the left. Another hallway, his boots nearly ripping the carpeting to shreds. Gokudera -- the word “storms” is close, but not angry enough, so “hurricanes” is more like it -- along the familiar path to Yamamoto’s office, trailing cigarette smoke in his livid wake.
Under his breath, mutters quickly turn to shouts, curses, Italian swear words that would make a sailor blush. A fit of coughing halts him briefly; thumping a wall, he drops and casts the end away from him, doesn’t take the time to grind it into the floor. He resumes pursuit. There is no time to waste on this.
The office door is slightly ajar, but Gokudera slams it fully open and starts speaking before he’s halfway in.
“What in the name of hell was that?” The words burst out of his mouth like gunfire. “You were supposed to shoot the bastard, you idiot, not engage him in a duel! You’re not supposed to whip out your sword for every dumb fuck that thinks he can brawl with one of the Vongola! And then what, you can’t even finish him off, you had to let him go? Testa di cazzo!”
Down goes the neat wastebasket by the bookshelf, toppled by a furious kick from Gokudera.
“You screwed up the entire operation, put us all at risk!”
Another kick sends a small chair skittering to the ground. There aren’t any more props for him to demolish, so Gokudera marches right up to the handsome wooden desk and slams his hands down.
“I knew you were stupid but I didn’t think you were that stu--”
That’s when, like a clumsy colt, his rebuke falls flat. Sudden stillness startles him, because instead of Yamamoto’s lazy grin it’s Tsuna whom his eyes land on. (He’s a little short for Yamamoto’s desk, and the papers in his hands feel out of place.) Gokudera realizes who he’s yelling at just in time to drop his last words, trip over himself, and shoulder his familiar ungainliness in the face of Vongola’s Tenth.
Tsuna looks the part of his famiglia’s boss, from his tie, nearly strangling him, to the leather-tough gloves he always wears. Everything except the slight tremor that shakes him when Gokudera brings down his hands: a sliver of anxiety, piercing him. It pierces Gokudera too, but then he sees Tsuna straighten up, shake it off like a man, and it makes him so proud -- look how far we’ve come. I always knew we could.
“U-um, Gokudera-kun?” Gokudera snaps to attention, a rigid soldier at the right hand of his boss. He was in a hurry, but he can take the time to pause for this. “Is something--”
wrong? Not on my watch, never -- “My bad, Tenth!” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about a thing. I -- thought Takeshi would be here...”
Tsuna’s face says slow down, please. You always move too fast. “No,” hesitantly, “he went out, I think to the training room. After he came back from -- you know. The fight. I was supposed to debrief him, but -- he’d already left,” and there’s a note of apology, like it’s his responsibility to know where his family wants to be instead of the other way round.
“I’ll go catch up with him for you!” He volunteers at once. Tsuna wouldn’t, won’t reprimand Yamamoto, not even if he desperately needs it. Not even if he has to wait and fret and agonize on Yamamoto’s part, trusting him to do the right thing. No man is infallible, Yamamoto least of all, but no one will call him out on his faults as long as he pulls another miraculous victory out of thin air (this time, at least) -- whereas Gokudera, he needs someone to punch for making the Tenth worry so. And that’s why he needs to rage and rant at that smiling dreamer himself; that’s why --
He doesn’t say it, but then again, he doesn’t have to.
Tsuna looks past him, through him, and there’s nothing he can’t see; Gokudera’s willing to show him everything, all he has, the devotion lying deep in his very bones. And Tsuna nods, and half-smiles. He’s used to Gokudera by now. That kind of loyalty doesn’t scare him anymore.
“You don’t have to.” It’s an invitation to drop to the anger, Gokudera’s yet-unspoken reprimand. But --
“It’s only the duty--” of a right-hand man. Your right-hand man.
They meet each other’s eyes, and there’s the understanding they know so well. Though Gokudera’s look does promise retribution for Yamamoto’s mistakes, Tsuna allows himself to be calmed. For the moment, all is well: after all, none of that furious force is directed at him.
Gokudera sets his glare, bullet grey eyes of armor-piercing steel. “I’ll be back soon, Tenth,” he promises, grin flashing in his face.
Tsuna hesitates. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
And again, the eager reassurance -- “Don’t worry about a thing!” Before he can do anything about it, Gokudera’s off, swinging the door open and leaving it ajar. A call resounds down the hallway, “Baseball idiot -- !” The Storm guardian doesn’t even bother to hide his murderous intent.
He’s off, pulling out a cigarette as he goes, ready to teach an impudent baseball idiot some sense. Foul weather alert. The Storm’s let loose, and he’s on his way.
happy birthday, fizzy.
Katekyo Hitman Reborn! ➝ Gokudera, Tsuna ➝ PG ➝ 901 words
He's lucky enough to pass through the eye of the storm.
Down the hallway. Door to the left. Another hallway, his boots nearly ripping the carpeting to shreds. Gokudera -- the word “storms” is close, but not angry enough, so “hurricanes” is more like it -- along the familiar path to Yamamoto’s office, trailing cigarette smoke in his livid wake.
Under his breath, mutters quickly turn to shouts, curses, Italian swear words that would make a sailor blush. A fit of coughing halts him briefly; thumping a wall, he drops and casts the end away from him, doesn’t take the time to grind it into the floor. He resumes pursuit. There is no time to waste on this.
The office door is slightly ajar, but Gokudera slams it fully open and starts speaking before he’s halfway in.
“What in the name of hell was that?” The words burst out of his mouth like gunfire. “You were supposed to shoot the bastard, you idiot, not engage him in a duel! You’re not supposed to whip out your sword for every dumb fuck that thinks he can brawl with one of the Vongola! And then what, you can’t even finish him off, you had to let him go? Testa di cazzo!”
Down goes the neat wastebasket by the bookshelf, toppled by a furious kick from Gokudera.
“You screwed up the entire operation, put us all at risk!”
Another kick sends a small chair skittering to the ground. There aren’t any more props for him to demolish, so Gokudera marches right up to the handsome wooden desk and slams his hands down.
“I knew you were stupid but I didn’t think you were that stu--”
That’s when, like a clumsy colt, his rebuke falls flat. Sudden stillness startles him, because instead of Yamamoto’s lazy grin it’s Tsuna whom his eyes land on. (He’s a little short for Yamamoto’s desk, and the papers in his hands feel out of place.) Gokudera realizes who he’s yelling at just in time to drop his last words, trip over himself, and shoulder his familiar ungainliness in the face of Vongola’s Tenth.
Tsuna looks the part of his famiglia’s boss, from his tie, nearly strangling him, to the leather-tough gloves he always wears. Everything except the slight tremor that shakes him when Gokudera brings down his hands: a sliver of anxiety, piercing him. It pierces Gokudera too, but then he sees Tsuna straighten up, shake it off like a man, and it makes him so proud -- look how far we’ve come. I always knew we could.
“U-um, Gokudera-kun?” Gokudera snaps to attention, a rigid soldier at the right hand of his boss. He was in a hurry, but he can take the time to pause for this. “Is something--”
wrong? Not on my watch, never -- “My bad, Tenth!” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about a thing. I -- thought Takeshi would be here...”
Tsuna’s face says slow down, please. You always move too fast. “No,” hesitantly, “he went out, I think to the training room. After he came back from -- you know. The fight. I was supposed to debrief him, but -- he’d already left,” and there’s a note of apology, like it’s his responsibility to know where his family wants to be instead of the other way round.
“I’ll go catch up with him for you!” He volunteers at once. Tsuna wouldn’t, won’t reprimand Yamamoto, not even if he desperately needs it. Not even if he has to wait and fret and agonize on Yamamoto’s part, trusting him to do the right thing. No man is infallible, Yamamoto least of all, but no one will call him out on his faults as long as he pulls another miraculous victory out of thin air (this time, at least) -- whereas Gokudera, he needs someone to punch for making the Tenth worry so. And that’s why he needs to rage and rant at that smiling dreamer himself; that’s why --
He doesn’t say it, but then again, he doesn’t have to.
Tsuna looks past him, through him, and there’s nothing he can’t see; Gokudera’s willing to show him everything, all he has, the devotion lying deep in his very bones. And Tsuna nods, and half-smiles. He’s used to Gokudera by now. That kind of loyalty doesn’t scare him anymore.
“You don’t have to.” It’s an invitation to drop to the anger, Gokudera’s yet-unspoken reprimand. But --
“It’s only the duty--” of a right-hand man. Your right-hand man.
They meet each other’s eyes, and there’s the understanding they know so well. Though Gokudera’s look does promise retribution for Yamamoto’s mistakes, Tsuna allows himself to be calmed. For the moment, all is well: after all, none of that furious force is directed at him.
Gokudera sets his glare, bullet grey eyes of armor-piercing steel. “I’ll be back soon, Tenth,” he promises, grin flashing in his face.
Tsuna hesitates. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
And again, the eager reassurance -- “Don’t worry about a thing!” Before he can do anything about it, Gokudera’s off, swinging the door open and leaving it ajar. A call resounds down the hallway, “Baseball idiot -- !” The Storm guardian doesn’t even bother to hide his murderous intent.
He’s off, pulling out a cigarette as he goes, ready to teach an impudent baseball idiot some sense. Foul weather alert. The Storm’s let loose, and he’s on his way.
happy birthday, fizzy.