[hitman reborn]: yamamoto/hibari: "untitled"
So I've been out of commission for the past few days because I got run over by a bike (you know why this sounds hilarious? BECAUSE IT IS.) and broke two fingers on my left hand, which HURT and is ANNOYING, because it hinders important activities such as typing and tying my shoes. Actually, I really do find it amusing more than anything else, because dude, I live in a city that is the very epitome of urban, and it's not a car that gets me, but a freaking bicyclist. Who was drunk, by the way. That makes me feel a little better, for whatever reason.
So yeah, my left hand is all clunky now and I have a wicked bruise on my leg, but hey, bones will mend and bruises will fade, etc etc. Although I do mourn the loss of my phone, which skittered away, never to be found again. Alas. And I'm sorry for commenting so late, guys. D:
But, uh. Onwards! To fic! To fic?
Title: ... Nope, I've got nothing.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Yamamoto/Hibari (8018, is it?)
Warnings: Nothing, really.
Summary: I swear I was going somewhere with this, but I never got there and gave up. Basically lots of fail and stuff. Sorry...
When it happens, Yamamoto Takeshi doesn’t cry (not that Hibari finds this particularly impressive), and nothing comes after.
It’s unnecessary, Yamamoto had said, and besides, it’s only ceremonial, and the body’s too mangled anyway, hardly recognizable, and a closed casket isn’t- They wear black suits and black ties, shining black shoes every day - let’s just take it in stride, okay? It’s okay. It’s okay.
He receives their condolences graciously, shakes hands and smiles at everyone.
Life moves on with one less.
“I don’t understand,” Hibari says over tea one day. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“Eh?” He smiles at Hibari from across the table, head propped up by his elbow. “What is it?” He’s grown even taller over the years, impossibly tall, so that when he slouches, Hibari imagines the creak of bones.
Hibari doesn’t answer him, delicately sets his empty cup upon the table. Yamamoto fills it up again without being asked and hums tunelessly.
“I taught Hibird a new song yesterday, when you were busy taking apart boxes - do you want to hear it?”
Hibari feels Hibird hop once on top of his head. “Not especially.” He blows on his tea.
“It’s fun. Listen.” Yamamoto whistles a shrill note and Hibird begins to sing.
It’s an English song, and the accent - no doubt imitated from Yamamoto - is horrendous.
Hibari says, blandly, “Don’t teach my bird useless things.”
Yamamoto chuckles, murmurs low, “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don’t care if I never get back…” He places his hands flat on the table, leans across to wrinkle his nose playfully at Hibird, and Hibari stares at his collarbones.
“I don’t understand,” Hibari says again. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
He drops his head to look Hibari in the eye, and for just a moment, he is silent. “What?”
They stare at each other, Hibari looking bored and Yamamoto looking blank, noses almost touching, until Yamamoto starts to grin. “What?” he laughs.
Hibari places his hand over Yamamoto’s face, pushes him back into his seat, swiping his cup from the table to save it from Yamamoto’s flailing limbs.
“Your father,” he says, voice cool over the steam of the tea, “is dead.”
And Yamamoto looks as if he’s just dropped out of the sky and into his chair, arms and legs askew, head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” and he looks sheepish, almost.
Yamamoto’s legs are too long, Hibari thinks, or the table is too small, or they’re too close, because sitting like that, like he’s just dropped out of the sky, Yamamoto’s feet rest on either side of Hibari’s chair.
“Yes,” Hibari corrects.
“Yes,” Yamamoto repeats to the ceiling, and smiles.
--------
He’s not okay, though.
“You’re not okay,” Hibari tells him.
Yamamoto looks up from his stretches, pats himself down. “But I feel okay.” He grins and tries to kiss Hibari, but Hibari only covers Yamamoto’s face with one hand.
“You’re not okay,” he repeats. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“I am,” Yamamoto mumbles into Hibari’s palm, looking at Hibari from between Hibari’s fingers. His eyes are hard, but then he pokes out his tongue to lick at Hibari’s skin, and Hibari slams a tonfa into the side of his head.
“Lie to me again, and you won’t be,” he says in way of farewell.
--------
They pass each other in the hallway the next day.
“You have such a cute nose,” Yamamoto teases as he breezes by, hands in his pockets.
Hibari whirls, sends him flying without a word, and continues on his way, but later, when he’s feeding Hibird, he spares himself a glance in the mirror, just to make sure that-
“I'm afraid you are mistaken, Yamamoto Takeshi,” he says six and a half hours later (4:14 AM - Yamamoto should be asleep, but he isn’t and Hibari knows), and he shoves Yamamoto’s head into a wall.
Yamamoto slumps to the ground, laughing, and Hibari stands over him, like a sentinel, because Yamamoto’s always stood over them, calm and so calm, but who watches the watchmen?
“Sorry,” Yamamoto says. “Sorry.”
Hibari watches.
“Sorry,” Yamamoto says. “Sorry,” and he throws his head back and laughs loud, and everything’s a little off-center.
Hibari kicks him, emotionless, vicious, says, “Stop,” and Yamamoto doubles over, still shaking with laughter and, “Sorry. Sorry. Hibari, I - ah, ah - ahahahaha,” and it’s not supposed to be like this, the world tilting, tilting, everything sliding-
“Stop,” he says.
Yamamoto brings his hands to his face and laughs into them, and laughs, and laughs.
“Sorry.”
--------
Hibari presses his fingertips to the new scar on Yamamoto’s chin.
“That,” he muses, “was extraordinarily stupid.”
And Yamamoto grabs his fingers, presses them to his lips, kisses them, grins.
“But it’s okay.”
Hibari frowns at Yamamoto’s mouth, where his fingers are pale against the pink. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“I got them in the end. Hibari, it’s o-” And suddenly his hand tightens around Hibari’s, and his eyes widen, smile disappears, and somewhere hidden (soft, a secret), he looks unbelievably sad.
Hibari pulls his hand free, fists it in Yamamoto’s hair, pulls Yamamoto down to his height. “Next time,” he says, “You don’t lie to me.”
Yamamoto only nods once before he closes his eyes and rests his head against Hibari’s shoulder. “I’m tired,” he sighs, defeated and young, “of this game,” and the way he’s slumped against Hibari, his spine a curve, arms dangling, Hibari imagines the creak of bones.
“Then go to sleep. I have work to do.” His hands are ready to push Yamamoto off, and he’s about to.
“Yeah.” Yamamoto turns his face to Hibari’s neck. “Okay.”
“Yes,” he corrects, then, “Go report to Sawada first.” He takes a step back and doesn’t move to catch Yamamoto when he stumbles.
“Yes,” Yamamoto says, looking at his hands - one of his arms is broken and in a makeshift sling. “Tsuna-”
“Doesn’t know you’re back yet. And has been badgering me since you’ve disappeared. It’s irritating.” Hibari straightens his cuffs. “Go make him stop.”
And Yamamoto smiles at him. “You got it.”
--------
4:14 AM.
“I’ll give you a choice. One, you get your skull split open by my tonfa. Two - which is infinitely more fun for me but, unfortunately, less so for you - you can be pierced through by a cloud of thorns. Choose quickly.”
“Haha! You’re so funny, Hibari. Move over a little, will you?”
“… Kindly hand me my box, Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“What do you need it for? Go back to sleep.”
Hibari sits up calmly, reaches over to the side of the futon-
“Hey.” Yamamoto grabs his wrist.
Hibari glares at him in the dark. “What,” he says, not even a question. "I'm getting ready to kill you."
Yamamoto holds Hibari’s wrist, his head pillowed on one arm. “Let me stay. Okay?”
There is a long silence after Hibari snatches his hand back. In that long silence, Yamamoto mentally counts the many different ways he's seen Hibari break a man's spine, wonders if perhaps the hedgehog would be a better choice, then decides he doesn't want to die like road kill.
But there's only shuffling as Hibari lies down again and turns his back to Yamamoto.
“Hibari?”
“Touch me," and there's a tonfa digging into Yamamoto's ribs, "and you die.”
“A-All right,” Yamamoto laughs, and very carefully keeps his hands to himself.
Despite his best efforts though, when he wakes up the next morning, one of his hands is curled around the hem of Hibari’s shirt, and yet he is still very gloriously alive.
So yeah, my left hand is all clunky now and I have a wicked bruise on my leg, but hey, bones will mend and bruises will fade, etc etc. Although I do mourn the loss of my phone, which skittered away, never to be found again. Alas. And I'm sorry for commenting so late, guys. D:
But, uh. Onwards! To fic! To fic?
Title: ... Nope, I've got nothing.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Yamamoto/Hibari (8018, is it?)
Warnings: Nothing, really.
Summary: I swear I was going somewhere with this, but I never got there and gave up. Basically lots of fail and stuff. Sorry...
When it happens, Yamamoto Takeshi doesn’t cry (not that Hibari finds this particularly impressive), and nothing comes after.
It’s unnecessary, Yamamoto had said, and besides, it’s only ceremonial, and the body’s too mangled anyway, hardly recognizable, and a closed casket isn’t- They wear black suits and black ties, shining black shoes every day - let’s just take it in stride, okay? It’s okay. It’s okay.
He receives their condolences graciously, shakes hands and smiles at everyone.
Life moves on with one less.
“I don’t understand,” Hibari says over tea one day. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“Eh?” He smiles at Hibari from across the table, head propped up by his elbow. “What is it?” He’s grown even taller over the years, impossibly tall, so that when he slouches, Hibari imagines the creak of bones.
Hibari doesn’t answer him, delicately sets his empty cup upon the table. Yamamoto fills it up again without being asked and hums tunelessly.
“I taught Hibird a new song yesterday, when you were busy taking apart boxes - do you want to hear it?”
Hibari feels Hibird hop once on top of his head. “Not especially.” He blows on his tea.
“It’s fun. Listen.” Yamamoto whistles a shrill note and Hibird begins to sing.
It’s an English song, and the accent - no doubt imitated from Yamamoto - is horrendous.
Hibari says, blandly, “Don’t teach my bird useless things.”
Yamamoto chuckles, murmurs low, “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don’t care if I never get back…” He places his hands flat on the table, leans across to wrinkle his nose playfully at Hibird, and Hibari stares at his collarbones.
“I don’t understand,” Hibari says again. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
He drops his head to look Hibari in the eye, and for just a moment, he is silent. “What?”
They stare at each other, Hibari looking bored and Yamamoto looking blank, noses almost touching, until Yamamoto starts to grin. “What?” he laughs.
Hibari places his hand over Yamamoto’s face, pushes him back into his seat, swiping his cup from the table to save it from Yamamoto’s flailing limbs.
“Your father,” he says, voice cool over the steam of the tea, “is dead.”
And Yamamoto looks as if he’s just dropped out of the sky and into his chair, arms and legs askew, head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” and he looks sheepish, almost.
Yamamoto’s legs are too long, Hibari thinks, or the table is too small, or they’re too close, because sitting like that, like he’s just dropped out of the sky, Yamamoto’s feet rest on either side of Hibari’s chair.
“Yes,” Hibari corrects.
“Yes,” Yamamoto repeats to the ceiling, and smiles.
--------
He’s not okay, though.
“You’re not okay,” Hibari tells him.
Yamamoto looks up from his stretches, pats himself down. “But I feel okay.” He grins and tries to kiss Hibari, but Hibari only covers Yamamoto’s face with one hand.
“You’re not okay,” he repeats. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“I am,” Yamamoto mumbles into Hibari’s palm, looking at Hibari from between Hibari’s fingers. His eyes are hard, but then he pokes out his tongue to lick at Hibari’s skin, and Hibari slams a tonfa into the side of his head.
“Lie to me again, and you won’t be,” he says in way of farewell.
--------
They pass each other in the hallway the next day.
“You have such a cute nose,” Yamamoto teases as he breezes by, hands in his pockets.
Hibari whirls, sends him flying without a word, and continues on his way, but later, when he’s feeding Hibird, he spares himself a glance in the mirror, just to make sure that-
“I'm afraid you are mistaken, Yamamoto Takeshi,” he says six and a half hours later (4:14 AM - Yamamoto should be asleep, but he isn’t and Hibari knows), and he shoves Yamamoto’s head into a wall.
Yamamoto slumps to the ground, laughing, and Hibari stands over him, like a sentinel, because Yamamoto’s always stood over them, calm and so calm, but who watches the watchmen?
“Sorry,” Yamamoto says. “Sorry.”
Hibari watches.
“Sorry,” Yamamoto says. “Sorry,” and he throws his head back and laughs loud, and everything’s a little off-center.
Hibari kicks him, emotionless, vicious, says, “Stop,” and Yamamoto doubles over, still shaking with laughter and, “Sorry. Sorry. Hibari, I - ah, ah - ahahahaha,” and it’s not supposed to be like this, the world tilting, tilting, everything sliding-
“Stop,” he says.
Yamamoto brings his hands to his face and laughs into them, and laughs, and laughs.
“Sorry.”
--------
Hibari presses his fingertips to the new scar on Yamamoto’s chin.
“That,” he muses, “was extraordinarily stupid.”
And Yamamoto grabs his fingers, presses them to his lips, kisses them, grins.
“But it’s okay.”
Hibari frowns at Yamamoto’s mouth, where his fingers are pale against the pink. “Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“I got them in the end. Hibari, it’s o-” And suddenly his hand tightens around Hibari’s, and his eyes widen, smile disappears, and somewhere hidden (soft, a secret), he looks unbelievably sad.
Hibari pulls his hand free, fists it in Yamamoto’s hair, pulls Yamamoto down to his height. “Next time,” he says, “You don’t lie to me.”
Yamamoto only nods once before he closes his eyes and rests his head against Hibari’s shoulder. “I’m tired,” he sighs, defeated and young, “of this game,” and the way he’s slumped against Hibari, his spine a curve, arms dangling, Hibari imagines the creak of bones.
“Then go to sleep. I have work to do.” His hands are ready to push Yamamoto off, and he’s about to.
“Yeah.” Yamamoto turns his face to Hibari’s neck. “Okay.”
“Yes,” he corrects, then, “Go report to Sawada first.” He takes a step back and doesn’t move to catch Yamamoto when he stumbles.
“Yes,” Yamamoto says, looking at his hands - one of his arms is broken and in a makeshift sling. “Tsuna-”
“Doesn’t know you’re back yet. And has been badgering me since you’ve disappeared. It’s irritating.” Hibari straightens his cuffs. “Go make him stop.”
And Yamamoto smiles at him. “You got it.”
--------
4:14 AM.
“I’ll give you a choice. One, you get your skull split open by my tonfa. Two - which is infinitely more fun for me but, unfortunately, less so for you - you can be pierced through by a cloud of thorns. Choose quickly.”
“Haha! You’re so funny, Hibari. Move over a little, will you?”
“… Kindly hand me my box, Yamamoto Takeshi.”
“What do you need it for? Go back to sleep.”
Hibari sits up calmly, reaches over to the side of the futon-
“Hey.” Yamamoto grabs his wrist.
Hibari glares at him in the dark. “What,” he says, not even a question. "I'm getting ready to kill you."
Yamamoto holds Hibari’s wrist, his head pillowed on one arm. “Let me stay. Okay?”
There is a long silence after Hibari snatches his hand back. In that long silence, Yamamoto mentally counts the many different ways he's seen Hibari break a man's spine, wonders if perhaps the hedgehog would be a better choice, then decides he doesn't want to die like road kill.
But there's only shuffling as Hibari lies down again and turns his back to Yamamoto.
“Hibari?”
“Touch me," and there's a tonfa digging into Yamamoto's ribs, "and you die.”
“A-All right,” Yamamoto laughs, and very carefully keeps his hands to himself.
Despite his best efforts though, when he wakes up the next morning, one of his hands is curled around the hem of Hibari’s shirt, and yet he is still very gloriously alive.