(no subject)
Title: House Call
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters: Gokudera, Yamamoto (vaguely 8059, or just platonic affection. Whichever.)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Vague spoilers for current arc
Word Count: 1300
Notes: Nothing to say. The first line came out of nowhere today. The rest fell into place. :)
The first time Yamamoto invites Gokudera over to his house after school, they don't leave that table in the corner of Take Sushi.
Gokudera cautiously chews on the little rubbery band of nori around the cold and equally rubbery piece of tuna. Yamamoto smiles at him brightly, stupidly. They say nothing for at least an hour. That's an estimate; Gokudera thinks that's how long it took him to chew through his three pieces of sushi. How gross. Give him his prosciutto any day.
After an hour, after Gokudera leans back from the table, his jaw sore from all that chewing, Yamamoto clears his throat.
"So, my room is upstairs," he says, "we could hang out if you don't have to go ho--"
"I've got to go," Gokudera says, getting up from that table and getting his coat.
He sulks on the way home. He doesn't know what the stupid baseball freak thought he was doing. "Hang out?" Mafiosos don't hang out. They act. They protect each other. Kill bad guys. That sort of thing. And the sooner Yamamoto gets it through his stupid head that they aren't playing some stupid mafia roleplaying game -- that they don't hang out -- the better.
As Gokudera approaches his apartment building, he kicks a stray newspaper just because he can.
***
The twelfth time Yamamoto invites him over, he invites him over specifically to his room, and Gokudera goes.
They enter the restaurant, wave to Yamamoto's dad, and they are halfway up the staircase when Gokudera's heart starts pounding against his rib cage.
This is somebody's room. You don't just let people into your room. You keep it locked up tight. That's where you sleep and read and smoke and do other teenage-boy things and why would you let someone into a place like that?
Six steps above him, Yamamoto stops and smiles over his shoulder. "Coming?"
"Nn," Gokudera said and followed him the rest of the way up.
Once the door is shut behind them, Yamamoto flops on his floor pad. He gestures his arms wide. "This is it!"
Gokudera looks around. Baseball posters on the walls. Pile of dirty laundry. Loosely packed bookshelf with books laying at odd angles or laying on their sides. Gokudera thinks he'd go nuts living in a place like this. He thinks he kind of likes it.
He's never been in someone else's room before, aside the from the Tenth's. It's weird. He doesn't know where to sit. But Yamamoto scooches over, and he cautiously lowers himself onto the floor pad. Yamamoto is close enough to touch -- if they were friends, of course. But they're not, so Gokudera doesn't.
***
The thirty-eighth time, Gokudera goes over without being expressly invited because they're beyond that now.
He walks in and starts to call out, and stops. "T-tenth?!"
Tsuna is there with Reborn and Bianchi and the kids and well this is awkward. He eats and tries to help and breaks things and eventually bows out.
He'd doesn't come back until dark, when he's sure that everyone else is gone. He says "hi" to Yamamoto's dad and climbs the staircase quietly. He pauses outside Yamamoto's door. He tries really hard not to think about what this means that the crossed three neighborhoods in the dark to come back and see Yamamoto because he didn't get to hang out that afternoon. He tries not to think about it, but he thinks about it anyway.
He stands at the barrier to this warm, familiar place, his hands in his pockets so they just stop shaking. He stands there and thinks about what a serious violation this friendship thing could be to his role in the Vongola Family. They are Family -- brothers, or something like it. You're not friends with your Family. It gets in the way.
His hand is on the doorknob when Yamamoto says, "Come in."
Yamamoto's voice is quiet, but Gokudera's gotten used to listening for it in a crowd, to picking it out like a rhythm. Yamamoto's voice is insistent.
So Gokudera steps forward and does what it says.
***
They forget how many times Gokudera's been in Yamamoto's home, but this time has to be somewhere in the hundreds.
But this isn't his old room above Take Sushi. This is a new place -- Yamamoto's first apartment after high school. It's small and dark and the tiles in the bathroom are suspiciously discolored, but they can be cleaned. Yamamoto hands him a beer. They're grown-ups now. Excellent.
Yamamoto has no real furniture yet, just the familiar relics from his old childhood bedroom, and they look so funny in this new adult place. But his dad has promised to acquire for him some hand-me-downs. Gokudera hopes that these new possessions will persuade Yamamoto to take down those stupid baseball posters.
Gokudera doesn't come over as often as he used to. They are busy now, with Family, with life, and Yamamoto has started wearing a tailored black suit like the rest of them. He's dropped all requests that they "hang out."
They drop down onto the floor pads. Gokudera thinks that, even if Yamamoto had real furniture, they'd still sit on the floor pads just out of habit. Yamamoto smiles at him.
"So what do you think?"
Gokudera frowns and evaluates it. "It's small," he says, "and dark. And the tiles in the bathroom--"
"Haha, I know! It's really bad, isn't it?"
Gokudera nods faintly and pops open his beer. Yamamoto reaches a hand out and rests it on the back of Gokudera's head, his fingers playing with the strange, light-colored hair. They touch now, because they're something like friends.
"Your hair's gotten long since I last saw you."
And Gokudera nods because it's true.
***
The first time Yamamoto comes over to Gokudera's place, he's not invited. Gokudera doesn't even know how Yamamoto knows where he lives.
But he shows up anyway, soaked through from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. When Gokudera greets him at the door, he's wearing pajamas and a scowl.
"Do you know what time--" And he stops because Yamamoto's coat has fallen open. "Christ! Are you hurt," he asks, observing the blood smearing Yamamoto's white shirt, "get in here."
Yamamoto shakes his head -- not hurt, good -- and lets Gokudera pull him inside. They sit on Gokudera's couch. He retrieves a first-aid kit stashed under the side table, just in case Yamamoto's wrong. But Yamamoto doesn't take off his coat or his shirt like he usually would. He just sits there in silence.
Gokudera doesn't push him. He just lights up a cigarette and tosses one to Yamamoto. He doesn't think Yamamoto ever took up smoking, but he wants to put the offer out there. Yamamoto just fidgets with it, rolling it between his fingers, tapping one end on his leg, spinning it halfway around, tapping the other end.
"They surprised me," he says finally, "I was just walking and two of them came at me. I didn't even think. I... I didn't mean to."
And it is clear. The blood on his shirt isn't his own.
"Millefiore?"
Yamamoto nods, his forehead resting in his hands.
"Good," Gokudera says, grasping at thoughts, giving the kind of supportive response that he'd want.
And Yamamoto looks up at him, eyes scared and dark. "This isn't some game," he says, his voice a gasp, "those were people."
And Gokudera can't respond to that. So instead he gestures for Yamamoto to lay his head in his lap, and he rests his hand on Yamamoto's head until his friend falls asleep.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters: Gokudera, Yamamoto (vaguely 8059, or just platonic affection. Whichever.)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Vague spoilers for current arc
Word Count: 1300
Notes: Nothing to say. The first line came out of nowhere today. The rest fell into place. :)
The first time Yamamoto invites Gokudera over to his house after school, they don't leave that table in the corner of Take Sushi.
Gokudera cautiously chews on the little rubbery band of nori around the cold and equally rubbery piece of tuna. Yamamoto smiles at him brightly, stupidly. They say nothing for at least an hour. That's an estimate; Gokudera thinks that's how long it took him to chew through his three pieces of sushi. How gross. Give him his prosciutto any day.
After an hour, after Gokudera leans back from the table, his jaw sore from all that chewing, Yamamoto clears his throat.
"So, my room is upstairs," he says, "we could hang out if you don't have to go ho--"
"I've got to go," Gokudera says, getting up from that table and getting his coat.
He sulks on the way home. He doesn't know what the stupid baseball freak thought he was doing. "Hang out?" Mafiosos don't hang out. They act. They protect each other. Kill bad guys. That sort of thing. And the sooner Yamamoto gets it through his stupid head that they aren't playing some stupid mafia roleplaying game -- that they don't hang out -- the better.
As Gokudera approaches his apartment building, he kicks a stray newspaper just because he can.
***
The twelfth time Yamamoto invites him over, he invites him over specifically to his room, and Gokudera goes.
They enter the restaurant, wave to Yamamoto's dad, and they are halfway up the staircase when Gokudera's heart starts pounding against his rib cage.
This is somebody's room. You don't just let people into your room. You keep it locked up tight. That's where you sleep and read and smoke and do other teenage-boy things and why would you let someone into a place like that?
Six steps above him, Yamamoto stops and smiles over his shoulder. "Coming?"
"Nn," Gokudera said and followed him the rest of the way up.
Once the door is shut behind them, Yamamoto flops on his floor pad. He gestures his arms wide. "This is it!"
Gokudera looks around. Baseball posters on the walls. Pile of dirty laundry. Loosely packed bookshelf with books laying at odd angles or laying on their sides. Gokudera thinks he'd go nuts living in a place like this. He thinks he kind of likes it.
He's never been in someone else's room before, aside the from the Tenth's. It's weird. He doesn't know where to sit. But Yamamoto scooches over, and he cautiously lowers himself onto the floor pad. Yamamoto is close enough to touch -- if they were friends, of course. But they're not, so Gokudera doesn't.
***
The thirty-eighth time, Gokudera goes over without being expressly invited because they're beyond that now.
He walks in and starts to call out, and stops. "T-tenth?!"
Tsuna is there with Reborn and Bianchi and the kids and well this is awkward. He eats and tries to help and breaks things and eventually bows out.
He'd doesn't come back until dark, when he's sure that everyone else is gone. He says "hi" to Yamamoto's dad and climbs the staircase quietly. He pauses outside Yamamoto's door. He tries really hard not to think about what this means that the crossed three neighborhoods in the dark to come back and see Yamamoto because he didn't get to hang out that afternoon. He tries not to think about it, but he thinks about it anyway.
He stands at the barrier to this warm, familiar place, his hands in his pockets so they just stop shaking. He stands there and thinks about what a serious violation this friendship thing could be to his role in the Vongola Family. They are Family -- brothers, or something like it. You're not friends with your Family. It gets in the way.
His hand is on the doorknob when Yamamoto says, "Come in."
Yamamoto's voice is quiet, but Gokudera's gotten used to listening for it in a crowd, to picking it out like a rhythm. Yamamoto's voice is insistent.
So Gokudera steps forward and does what it says.
***
They forget how many times Gokudera's been in Yamamoto's home, but this time has to be somewhere in the hundreds.
But this isn't his old room above Take Sushi. This is a new place -- Yamamoto's first apartment after high school. It's small and dark and the tiles in the bathroom are suspiciously discolored, but they can be cleaned. Yamamoto hands him a beer. They're grown-ups now. Excellent.
Yamamoto has no real furniture yet, just the familiar relics from his old childhood bedroom, and they look so funny in this new adult place. But his dad has promised to acquire for him some hand-me-downs. Gokudera hopes that these new possessions will persuade Yamamoto to take down those stupid baseball posters.
Gokudera doesn't come over as often as he used to. They are busy now, with Family, with life, and Yamamoto has started wearing a tailored black suit like the rest of them. He's dropped all requests that they "hang out."
They drop down onto the floor pads. Gokudera thinks that, even if Yamamoto had real furniture, they'd still sit on the floor pads just out of habit. Yamamoto smiles at him.
"So what do you think?"
Gokudera frowns and evaluates it. "It's small," he says, "and dark. And the tiles in the bathroom--"
"Haha, I know! It's really bad, isn't it?"
Gokudera nods faintly and pops open his beer. Yamamoto reaches a hand out and rests it on the back of Gokudera's head, his fingers playing with the strange, light-colored hair. They touch now, because they're something like friends.
"Your hair's gotten long since I last saw you."
And Gokudera nods because it's true.
***
The first time Yamamoto comes over to Gokudera's place, he's not invited. Gokudera doesn't even know how Yamamoto knows where he lives.
But he shows up anyway, soaked through from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. When Gokudera greets him at the door, he's wearing pajamas and a scowl.
"Do you know what time--" And he stops because Yamamoto's coat has fallen open. "Christ! Are you hurt," he asks, observing the blood smearing Yamamoto's white shirt, "get in here."
Yamamoto shakes his head -- not hurt, good -- and lets Gokudera pull him inside. They sit on Gokudera's couch. He retrieves a first-aid kit stashed under the side table, just in case Yamamoto's wrong. But Yamamoto doesn't take off his coat or his shirt like he usually would. He just sits there in silence.
Gokudera doesn't push him. He just lights up a cigarette and tosses one to Yamamoto. He doesn't think Yamamoto ever took up smoking, but he wants to put the offer out there. Yamamoto just fidgets with it, rolling it between his fingers, tapping one end on his leg, spinning it halfway around, tapping the other end.
"They surprised me," he says finally, "I was just walking and two of them came at me. I didn't even think. I... I didn't mean to."
And it is clear. The blood on his shirt isn't his own.
"Millefiore?"
Yamamoto nods, his forehead resting in his hands.
"Good," Gokudera says, grasping at thoughts, giving the kind of supportive response that he'd want.
And Yamamoto looks up at him, eyes scared and dark. "This isn't some game," he says, his voice a gasp, "those were people."
And Gokudera can't respond to that. So instead he gestures for Yamamoto to lay his head in his lap, and he rests his hand on Yamamoto's head until his friend falls asleep.