[Fic] Homecoming Parade
I'm in such...such a bad mood.
Everything was going quite well today. I watched My Neighbour Totoro and Advent Children: Complete one after the other and squealed and laughed and fangirled myself into a mush on the couch and then I visited the internet and everything went badly fucking downhill. I wonder why I bother.
The following fic doesn't actually have a plot, just to warn any readers. Like, seriously, it's just...a block of text and dialogue. Idk, I still like it. Sort of. I'm still rusty, getting back into the swing of writing.
Title: Homecoming Parade
Pairing: 8059
Warnings: PG-13; tiny sprinkling of Gokudera's trademark foul mouth.
Words: 4500
Summary: Oftentimes, that familiar mundanity is the sweetest gift life can offer.
Standing the suitcase on its wheels as he fished the spare key from his pocket, the tall, dark-haired man couldn't help but smile through his tiredness, fingers tracing over that familiar metal cut that etched the sweetest imprint of home into the pad of his thumb.
Granted, not technically his home, he thought with a quiet chuckle as he slipped the key into its lock, but a place that felt more like home than anywhere in the world, perhaps bar that small sushi restaurant that recalled his childhood days with a fond clearness; the bruises and scraped knees of pre-adolescence, the batting averages of middle school, the laughable averageness of his grade point averages, the evening and weekend shifts washing dishes and serving customers.
Yamamoto shook his head, inwardly laughing at his silliness as he twisted the handle, pushing open the door as the sound of music spilled out, dragging himself and his suitcase in past the threshold and breathing a heaved sigh of relief as it closed behind him. So relaxing, so calming, just so nice to be...home.
The man slipped off his shoes as he began to loosen his tie, smiling crookedly. At least he knew the owner of said home was actually in, given away by the sultry tones of some exotic Italian singer accompanied by a fine orchestra. At least, that's what Yamamoto was told it was; he usually heard it as some person warbling in a language he could just about speak but not understand a word of under their pronunciations, coated thickly with syrupy vibrato.
“Meow?”
Blinking, he looked down as the owner of the voice looked up with large, slanted eyes. Yamamoto only grinned as the cat stretched out, pressing his head to the suitcase and skittering forward, rubbing the length of his spine down the edge and mewling in that bizarre display of happiness felines show, his ears flaring equally happily and threatening to scorch the innocent suitcase should they get any bigger.
“Shh,” the man hushed, crouching down and running a knuckle over the cat's head to appease him.
Rising again, Yamamoto stepped in as quietly as he could, socked feet pressing lightly to the floorboards as Uri dashed past him, tail standing proudly in the air. It wasn't late at night. Heck, it wasn't even late in the afternoon at 2.17 pm, and there was no worry of waking neighbours, or even disturbing, with his homecoming; there was another reason for the hitman's stealthiness.
So he crept into the apartment, around the corner toward the living room area as he glanced about, silently pleased that nothing had changed in his absence. No new paint on the walls, no furniture replaced, no photos on the wall removed, no ornaments swapped around. Not that he would have noticed if it had, but still. A buzzing warmth spread through his aching muscles as that simple familiarity enclosed him again, surrounding him like the perfect fluffy blanket, along with a mug of cocoa and a sweet goodnight kiss. Perfection.
However, as he turned his head into said living room, Yamamoto's smile took on a somewhat bewildered quality as he was greeted with the sight of something, possibly above anything else, that he really hadn't been expecting.
Namely, a fort.
Stopping dead on his feet, the dark-haired man stood and blinked at the large construction of couch, pillows, sheets, coffee table, kitchen chairs and what looked like a broom. For a brief second he wondered if there had been a raid, if the perpetrators had ransacked the place and thrown stuff about in their haste, his heart jumping at the thought of violence, if-
A pair of green eyes suddenly appeared as a sheet was yanked up, just enough of a crack to see out of.
“Gokudera?” the Japanese man asked stupidly, realising that dropping his keys in numb surprise had somewhat given him away as they had clattered to the floor noisily, jingling like alarm bells and utterly stupidly revealing his presence.
“...why the hell are you here.” said a voice behind the sheets and pillows, eyes blinking rapidly.
“Uh...” Yamamoto replied, breaking out into a predictable grin at the sudden absurdity of the situation, “Ahaha, to see you, maybe?”
“You weren't supposed to be back till tomorrow.” the voice emphasised.
“I know-”
“I was expecting you back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Your flight was tomorrow, you were scheduled to get back by evening, and yet you're here.”
“Gokudera, I-”
“Why are you here.”
“Because I finishe-”
“Did you fuck up?!”
“No! No!” Yamamoto almost yelped, trying to get a word in edgewise between the voice's fiery demands, “I just finished early! So I came back early, saw Tsuna and was expecting a ton of paperwork which I wasn't really looking forward to...ahaha, he told me to go home and rest. Shouldn't...you be working?”
The dark-haired man eyed the fort.
“The Tenth told me, very kindly and from the goodness in his heart even though I should be completing plenty of work, I could have yesterday, today and tomorrow off.” the eyes blinked, narrowing.
In other words, i.e. regular person speak; Tsuna had forced Gokudera to take the time off with a great deal of hard work, some mild threats and possibly some co-ercement from Reborn.
“So that resulted in..?” Yamamoto gestured vaguely with a hand toward the Italian's masterpiece.
Silence.
“It's been up since yesterday morning.”
“...oh.” the Japanese man couldn't help but laugh.
“I was going to take it down tonight, but oh no you had to come back early, didn't you, fucking idiot, jeez.” the eyes rolled, somewhat disdainfully.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yamamoto grinned, bending to pick his dropped keys before making his way over and crouching before the fort so his eyes were level with the green ones flashing out from the gap in the sheets, “next time I'll be sure to be late.”
“Idiot.” was the simple reply, eyes softening nontheless. “Whatever.”
They stared at each other for a moment, one face filled with laughter, the other, so thankfully hidden, scowling with embarrassment.
“Can I come in?”
Gokudera squinted, glancing away as if weighing up the options. Slowly turning his gaze back, it was quite possible, behind the wonderful, wonderful cover of sheets, he smirked.
“What's the password?”
“Password?” Yamamoto blinked, sitting back on his heels, “Hm...lemme see...”
The Italian waited patiently, expecting a predictably stupid answer.
“Maybe...Vongola?”
“No.” Gokudera scoffed with a cocky contentment in his voice, “Way too simple.”
“Then...oh, how about baseball?” Yamamoto grinned, full of his childish charm, even as a grown man.
“How stupid are you, as if any person other than you would pick that for a password.”
“Then is 'idiot' the password?”
“No!”
“Storm.”
“No, Yamamoto.”
“Gokudera.”
“What?”
“No! Is Gokudera the password?”
“Is my own name the password, jeez, uh, lemme think; no.”
Yamamoto flicked his gaze across the room.
“Chair.”
“Uh, no.”
“Floor?”
“You're just guessing fucking words now, don't be an idiot!”
Laughter, relieved and genuinely happy, burst out across the room.
“Then is 'can I please come in and give you your present' the password?” the dark-haired man tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.
There was a pregnant, yet not uncomfortable, pause.
“I thought I told you not to bring me anything back?” Gokudera asked quietly, chiding and attempting to sound more annoyed than he clearly was.
“Did you?” the dark-haired man questioned without a hint of sincerity in his warm voice.
“...you're an idiot.” was the response, predictable as ever, “You have to get in between the chair and coffee table.”
With that, the sheet dropped and the eyes disappeared.
Yamamoto grinned, rising. After heading back to his suitcase and quickly pulling out the small black box tucked tightly in between the mess of unfolded, stained, burnt, scuffed and ripped clothing that he would no doubt get scolded for later, the man headed back to the fort and, manoeuvring his way around the edge that no doubt fit the smaller Italian with ease, got to his knees and lifted the corner of a sheet. Glancing under, the Japanese man laughed, eyes flicking around, impressed, before beginning to shuffle, practically army crawling the space was that small, into the cavern that held Gokudera.
“Careful, idiot,” the Italian grumbled, moving a glass and his half-full ashtray off the floor onto the seat of a chair by his side lest Yamamoto knock them over, “that's the weakest part of the construct.”
“My bad,” the other said cheerfully as he finally made his way in, “I like what you've done with the place, Gokudera.”
The silver-haired man tutted, his eyes rolling back as he slumped back again into his nest of pillows. The sheets were artfully arranged over his head, and, with the light shining through the cotton, it cast a dim, hazy glow across the Italian and his kingdom. Smiling to himself at the sight of Gokudera making himself comfortable again, Yamamoto couldn't help but notice the rather large but neatly stacked pile of books by the Italian's side, topped with the CD player's remote so as to control the horrible warbling from within his fortress. It was like some Arabian prince's tent, except minus the luxurious silks and velvets, and perhaps minus a few concubines.
“Does Uri not like it in here or something?” Yamamoto asked as he shuffled over to the nest, finally wondering why the cat wasn't with his master in such a paradise.
“No, he liked it,” the Italian said as he shifted over slightly to allow the other some room, “but he kept stinking the damn place up. I told him he smelt bad and he fucked off, he won't come back now.”
“You upset him,” the dark-haired man laughed, flopping down amongst the pillows and sighing out happily.
“He's just being an unfriendly bastard.”
“Seemed happy enough to welcome me home.”
“Yeah, well, he would wouldn't he.” Gokudera rolled his eyes again, picking up the open book from his side and beginning to thumb through it aimlessly.
Yamamoto watched him for a moment, wondering if the other had been reading in this dull light for the past day and a half and feeling vaguely concerned for Gokudera's already poor eyesight. Couldn't exactly be good for him, sitting in there with a book to his nose for hours on end, even when his vision began to get fuzzy and his glasses began to give him a headache, because he was too stubborn to put the book down before it was finished. Like the time Yamamoto had been woken at 3AM due to the Italian fussing next to him, uncomfortable and restless with dark circles under his eyes and with 50 pages to go. 'I have to finish it' the Italian had insisted when the other had pleaded with him to sleep, 'I just have to finish it'. Of course, Yamamoto was the stupid one for asking why he couldn't just finish it tomorrow morning. He'd rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, despite Gokudera's dim lamp light and continuous squirming.
“Hey...”
“Nn?” Gokudera glanced over from his book to the one lay by his side, looking up at him.
Lowering his gaze half an inch, the Italian noticed the box being held out to him, with a complimentary side order of sunny smiles. He tutted, his head shaking almost on reflex as he set his book down and plucked the gift from the other's hand, turning it between his own as he gave a suspicious look to the giver.
“What's...this in aid of?”
“Hm? Nothing.” Yamamoto replied honestly, eyes wide, “I just wanted to.”
“I told you not to though,” the Italian mumbled, looking back to the box which was still being rotated between his fingers, “it has to be for something.”
Yamamoto couldn't help but snort quietly.
“Then...” he mused aloud, looking to the ceiling of sheets, “it's for your half-birthday.”
“But it's not my half-birthday, and it isn't anytime soon. My real birthday is sooner!”
“Then,” the dark-haired man looked back, rolling onto his side and positioning himself on his elbow for a better view of the other, “happy not half birthday, Gokudera.”
There was a somewhat disbelieving silence on the Italian's end before he laughed, incredulously, utterly baffled by such a ridiculous statement.
“In which case,” Gokudera said with raised eyebrow and crooked smile as his fingers positioned themselves on the box lid, “happy not half birthday to you too, you big idiot.”
“Ha, thank you!”
“I didn't get you a present though, considered I didn't know we were celebrating,” the silver-haired man said lightly, cracking open the lid and letting it shut again.
“That's alright, I don't mind.” Yamamoto beamed, waiting expectantly for the smaller man to finally open the box.
Gokudera made a noise of approval as he again cracked open the lid, only to let it shut. It was like he was building himself up to it, or perhaps just dragging it out as long as possible. The Italian was one for 'delayed gratification', Yamamoto knew. For example, if he had a pile of paperwork, he would save the easiest sheets for last, just so he would appreciate them that much more, or, if he had some box of chocolates that he was hoarding to himself, he would save his favourites till last, just so he could enjoy them that little bit more. It was a bizarre system to Yamamoto, but he had learnt not to question it since the only answer he would get would be the scientific explanation of how the hormones and brain and blood pressure or something were much more grateful if you always saved the best till last.
So he simply watched as the lid cracked open and closed again, open and closed, open and closed, until finally it was opened, agonisingly slowly, with Gokudera squinting through the increasing gap as he attempted to work out what it was. The lid gave a sharp snapping noise as it finally clicked open, upright.
“...cufflinks?” he said, almost thinking aloud.
“Yep!” the taller man perked up, “I remember you lost that pair that were your favourites so I-”
“I didn't lose them, I threw them out.” Gokudera interrupted, throwing a disdainful look towards the other.
“...you threw out your favourite cufflinks?”
“...maybe.” the Italian quickly returned his gaze to the new set, grumbling, “Maybe Uri hid them or something, I don't remember, it was ages ago.”
“Ahaha, alright, of course,” Yamamoto laughed despite himself, and despite the annoyed frown that was forming on Gokudera's brow, “I'm sorry, I'd forgotten.”
“Just shut up about it.” the smaller huffed, pulling one link from its faux velvet seat and dangling it in front of his eyes, “They're not particularly like the others, unsurprisingly, but at least you didn't get any motifed ones, jeez.”
“What, like the baseball ones?”
“Yes, like the baseball ones.” Gokudera paused, then added as poorly faked innocent afterthought, “Uri hid those too.”
“Ah,” the Japanese man conceded with a short series of blinks before grinning, “the cat likes cufflinks, huh?”
“Yeah,” Gokudera agreed with an enthusiastic nod, “he likes cufflinks.”
“Do you like cufflinks, Gokudera?”
“I like some,” the Italian said with nose held high, “these are alright I suppose. Where are they from?”
“That store you took me to to get that suit.”
“Yamamoto, I must have taken you to about a hundred stores on fifty different occasions; you wanna narrow it down a little?”
“Oh,” the Japanese man laughed, rubbing a hand over his forehead tiredly, “then the store we actually bought the suit from. The suit you like. You know, the one you say looks good on m-”
“I know which suit you mean, idiot.” Gokudera snapped quickly, a faint pinkness appearing in the tips of his ears which was thankfully masked by the dim light of the fort, “And why the hell were you in Milan? You were supposed to be on the other side of the country!”
“I had a day spare-”
“Bullshit.”
“It's a long story.” Yamamoto concluded with gentle sigh.
“Well, don't bother telling me now, since I'm gonna have to read the report tomorrow anyway.”
“Which I'm going to have to write,” the dark-haired man groaned, covering his eyes with his hand.
“And no slacking off either,” Gokudera said with finality, closing the box gently and setting it onto the chair seat beside his ashtray, picking up his glass and taking a short sip from what remained, “Thanks I guess. For the gift.”
“You're welcome.” Yamamoto smiled warmly, knowing by the admiring looks that the cufflinks were far from the proclaimed 'alright' and would no doubt be accompanying his suit when he next went back to work.
Shuffling down, Gokudera held the glass out, sharply poking the hand covering Yamamoto's eyes with a ringed index finger. Parting his own digits, the Japanese man glanced out, only to remove his hand and gratefully take the glass, pushing himself again up on his elbow as he downed what was left, only to grimace as he handed the empty tumbler back.
“How do you,” the taller paused to cough slightly, “drink that stuff?”
“I like Bailey's.” Gokudera said frankly, taking the glass and setting it back on the chair, “The mint chocolate version is nicer than the original, but I still like it. And it's better when ice cold, it's been sat there a while.”
“I don't think it'd make a difference, really.” the dark-haired man lay back, dropping his head into the pillows.
“Of course it would. It's supposed to taste better when you have it with milk but, ugh, like hell am I putting milk in there.”
“Maybe that's why I don't like it then.” Yamamoto laughed, adjusting as the Italian settled down next to him, “Besides, should you be drinking at this time?”
“It was one glass, Yamamoto, jeez.” Gokudera grumbled whilst shuffling forward, tucking himself into the Japanese man's arm, which quickly accepted him, draping over his side and pressing to his back, warm through the thin t-shirt covering the Italian's skin, “You don't have to worry about me turning to alcohol for company in your absence just yet.”
“Ah, I'm glad,” the taller smiled as a silver head appeared underneath his chin, resting on the shoulder of the arm which he slowly stretched out, creating a cradle for that precious skull.
They lay in a whole twenty seconds of peaceful silence bar the horrible warbling music coming in between the cracks of the sheets before Gokudera's mouth couldn't help but open again.
“You stink as bad as the cat.” he said matter of factly, not moving an inch despite the apparent stench.
“'m sorry,” Yamamoto responded quietly, already half-asleep in the lulling warmth of the fort, with the comforting feel of Gokudera's body next to his again, “haven't showered yet.”
“How was it?”
“The flight?”
“Mn.”
“Long,” the dark-haired man laughed faintly, “got a little sleep though. It was ok, just the usual, you know.”
“Minus screaming children at least.”
“Yeah, there's definitely an upside to first class,” Yamamoto adjusted his head so he could press his lips to silver hair, nosing into it and breathing in the familiarity before suddenly pulling away, retracting his hand from Gokudera's back and delving into a pocket, “Oh, you reminded me!”
Pulling his cellphone from his suit jacket, the Japanese man held it into the air above them, Gokudera's head moving to the crook of his neck and squirming in a reluctant delight when Yamamoto's elbow bent and a large hand found its way to the Italian's scalp, fingers slipping between fine strands of hair and twirling them gently around. Flicking through screen after screen, Gokudera watched as Yamamoto's thumb pressed buttons in the air, searching for whatever it was that was so important.
“...there.”
Squinting slightly to focus his vision, Gokudera looked at the marginally blurry photo on the cellphone's screen. There was...blue, and what looked like marble, with people, or rather, blobs that Gokudera was assuming to be people, leaping around.
“Some kid got pushed in the fountain,” Yamamoto murmured, swiping his thumb slowly across the corner of the screen, “and all his friends followed in after him. Couldn't help but laugh, huh?”
“...yeah,” the Italian conceded with a small smile as he remembered, “guess so. Take it the natives weren't too impressed?”
“Some old couple stood next to me were horrified.” he laughed in answer, flicking through some more inconsequential pictures.
“I bet.” Gokudera said quietly, unable to help the growing smile on his face as the memory grew clearer in his head.
Some years ago, the first time they'd all travelled to Italy together, young and naïve still, mere tourists and reluctant tour guides (i.e. Gokudera). It was in a little neighbouring town to Vongola's kingdom that they'd been visiting, just simple sight seeing. They'd agreed to meet up in the piazza at around one, so they could get together to grab some lunch. Gokudera had been forced to keep the most hopeless with him due to the fact he was the only fluent speaker of Italian, and thus forced to babysit Yamamoto and Ryohei up until the point the boxer had wandered off without warning and gotten lost. Still, he'd turned up at the right time with lipstick on his collar and looking a bit bewildered, but he was there nontheless. Jumping upon the fountain wall, he'd begun his usual routine of generally being too loud and irritating, causing some mirth amongst the few people wandering past, and when a young Lambo had come dashing through with I-Pin and Haru hot on his heels, Ryohei didn't even notice as the child crashed into his knees and knocking him, flailing, backwards into the water.
Splashing a disgruntled Gokudera with his rather ungraceful landing, the boxer had simply sat up in the fountain and yelled something along the lines of 'woo an extreme water fight!' and hence splashed the silver-haired Italian, yowling like a cat, all over again. Furious and dripping, Gokudera had dived into the fountain despite himself and all his knowledge of etiquette, in the hopes of strangling the turf-headed idiot, only to be splashed and splashed and dragged into the water further. In an attempt to part the two, Yamamoto had quickly joined them, laughing brightly even as he got soaked to the skin, Lambo and I-Pin joining quickly whilst Haru attempted to coax them all out by the fountain wall, only getting drenched with rather misguided splashing. When Tsuna and Kyoko had appeared through the quickly gathering crowd, a look of blanched mortification had overtaken Vongola Tenth's face at the scene his guardians were making.
When everyone eventually got out of the fountain, soaking wet and shivering, grins plastered across dripping faces, there was tutting amongst the older passersby, discouragement from mother's to easily influenced children, and some stifled laughter from people who actually had a sense of humour. Suffice to say, they hadn't gone to lunch somewhere in the piazza.
The noise of a camera shutter snapped Gokudera from his reverie, eyes snapping open as he looked up to see the back of Yamamoto's cellphone hovering above them.
“What did you just do!” the Italian tensed, twisting his head and butting Yamamoto's chin in the process.
“I just took a picture,” Yamamoto protested, quickly closing the phone, “I don't have any of us together-”
“No!” Gokudera snarled, hand instantly launching up to grab for the phone, “Bastard, you don't just take pictures when people aren't aware like that, fuck! Delete it!”
“I don't want to, Gokudera!” the taller objected, wincing as a foot met with his shin and attempting to twist away from the writhing Italian, “Let me keep it!”
“No!”
The following tussle for possession of the phone, which entailed plenty of kicking and screeching on the smaller's part, plenty of laughter on the other's as Gokudera attempted to snatch the phone away, getting it once but not keeping it long enough to have time to delete said photo, or even look at it before it was removed from his clutches and Yamamoto was on top of him, pressing him down with his heavy body and bright grin.
“I'm keeping it.” he said softly as Gokudera calmed down, eyes wide and angry, struggling mildly under the other's weight and hissing pissily to himself when he was relieved of said weight, rolling onto his side to face away from the other, sulking.
Chuckling quietly and tucking the phone into his pocket again, Yamamoto curled up against him, pressing his chest flush to the other's back as he wrapped an arm around his slender waist. Kissing the back of his neck, the Japanese man made sure to press his lips gently to the two vertebrae he could reach above the collar of Gokudera's shirt as he nosed his way up to his hairline. The Italian simply grumbled in half-hearted protest, refusing to speak on principle.
Knowing when to leave it, lest the fiery Italian actually fall into a bad mood fuelled by loss, Yamamoto merely stayed quiet, content with lying there.
It didn't take him long to fall asleep, jetlagged and exhausted with travel.
And, it wasn't until later, at 10.23 pm when he woke up next to a fast asleep Gokudera who hadn't moved an inch, finally built up the energy to force himself from the fort and go and shower, did he think to pull the cellphone from his pocket as he undressed. He hadn't quite got why the Italian had been so embarrassed and reluctant to let Yamamoto keep the picture, but when he opened his phone and flipped onto the photo, noting with a burning warmth in the core of his being the hand clasped in his collar like it would never let go, the head in the crook of his neck and his hand laced gently into silver hair, the look of blissful contentment, unabashedly grateful happiness painted perfectly onto Gokudera's pale, smiling face...he understood.
It was good to be home.
Everything was going quite well today. I watched My Neighbour Totoro and Advent Children: Complete one after the other and squealed and laughed and fangirled myself into a mush on the couch and then I visited the internet and everything went badly fucking downhill. I wonder why I bother.
The following fic doesn't actually have a plot, just to warn any readers. Like, seriously, it's just...a block of text and dialogue. Idk, I still like it. Sort of. I'm still rusty, getting back into the swing of writing.
Title: Homecoming Parade
Pairing: 8059
Warnings: PG-13; tiny sprinkling of Gokudera's trademark foul mouth.
Words: 4500
Summary: Oftentimes, that familiar mundanity is the sweetest gift life can offer.
Standing the suitcase on its wheels as he fished the spare key from his pocket, the tall, dark-haired man couldn't help but smile through his tiredness, fingers tracing over that familiar metal cut that etched the sweetest imprint of home into the pad of his thumb.
Granted, not technically his home, he thought with a quiet chuckle as he slipped the key into its lock, but a place that felt more like home than anywhere in the world, perhaps bar that small sushi restaurant that recalled his childhood days with a fond clearness; the bruises and scraped knees of pre-adolescence, the batting averages of middle school, the laughable averageness of his grade point averages, the evening and weekend shifts washing dishes and serving customers.
Yamamoto shook his head, inwardly laughing at his silliness as he twisted the handle, pushing open the door as the sound of music spilled out, dragging himself and his suitcase in past the threshold and breathing a heaved sigh of relief as it closed behind him. So relaxing, so calming, just so nice to be...home.
The man slipped off his shoes as he began to loosen his tie, smiling crookedly. At least he knew the owner of said home was actually in, given away by the sultry tones of some exotic Italian singer accompanied by a fine orchestra. At least, that's what Yamamoto was told it was; he usually heard it as some person warbling in a language he could just about speak but not understand a word of under their pronunciations, coated thickly with syrupy vibrato.
“Meow?”
Blinking, he looked down as the owner of the voice looked up with large, slanted eyes. Yamamoto only grinned as the cat stretched out, pressing his head to the suitcase and skittering forward, rubbing the length of his spine down the edge and mewling in that bizarre display of happiness felines show, his ears flaring equally happily and threatening to scorch the innocent suitcase should they get any bigger.
“Shh,” the man hushed, crouching down and running a knuckle over the cat's head to appease him.
Rising again, Yamamoto stepped in as quietly as he could, socked feet pressing lightly to the floorboards as Uri dashed past him, tail standing proudly in the air. It wasn't late at night. Heck, it wasn't even late in the afternoon at 2.17 pm, and there was no worry of waking neighbours, or even disturbing, with his homecoming; there was another reason for the hitman's stealthiness.
So he crept into the apartment, around the corner toward the living room area as he glanced about, silently pleased that nothing had changed in his absence. No new paint on the walls, no furniture replaced, no photos on the wall removed, no ornaments swapped around. Not that he would have noticed if it had, but still. A buzzing warmth spread through his aching muscles as that simple familiarity enclosed him again, surrounding him like the perfect fluffy blanket, along with a mug of cocoa and a sweet goodnight kiss. Perfection.
However, as he turned his head into said living room, Yamamoto's smile took on a somewhat bewildered quality as he was greeted with the sight of something, possibly above anything else, that he really hadn't been expecting.
Namely, a fort.
Stopping dead on his feet, the dark-haired man stood and blinked at the large construction of couch, pillows, sheets, coffee table, kitchen chairs and what looked like a broom. For a brief second he wondered if there had been a raid, if the perpetrators had ransacked the place and thrown stuff about in their haste, his heart jumping at the thought of violence, if-
A pair of green eyes suddenly appeared as a sheet was yanked up, just enough of a crack to see out of.
“Gokudera?” the Japanese man asked stupidly, realising that dropping his keys in numb surprise had somewhat given him away as they had clattered to the floor noisily, jingling like alarm bells and utterly stupidly revealing his presence.
“...why the hell are you here.” said a voice behind the sheets and pillows, eyes blinking rapidly.
“Uh...” Yamamoto replied, breaking out into a predictable grin at the sudden absurdity of the situation, “Ahaha, to see you, maybe?”
“You weren't supposed to be back till tomorrow.” the voice emphasised.
“I know-”
“I was expecting you back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Your flight was tomorrow, you were scheduled to get back by evening, and yet you're here.”
“Gokudera, I-”
“Why are you here.”
“Because I finishe-”
“Did you fuck up?!”
“No! No!” Yamamoto almost yelped, trying to get a word in edgewise between the voice's fiery demands, “I just finished early! So I came back early, saw Tsuna and was expecting a ton of paperwork which I wasn't really looking forward to...ahaha, he told me to go home and rest. Shouldn't...you be working?”
The dark-haired man eyed the fort.
“The Tenth told me, very kindly and from the goodness in his heart even though I should be completing plenty of work, I could have yesterday, today and tomorrow off.” the eyes blinked, narrowing.
In other words, i.e. regular person speak; Tsuna had forced Gokudera to take the time off with a great deal of hard work, some mild threats and possibly some co-ercement from Reborn.
“So that resulted in..?” Yamamoto gestured vaguely with a hand toward the Italian's masterpiece.
Silence.
“It's been up since yesterday morning.”
“...oh.” the Japanese man couldn't help but laugh.
“I was going to take it down tonight, but oh no you had to come back early, didn't you, fucking idiot, jeez.” the eyes rolled, somewhat disdainfully.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yamamoto grinned, bending to pick his dropped keys before making his way over and crouching before the fort so his eyes were level with the green ones flashing out from the gap in the sheets, “next time I'll be sure to be late.”
“Idiot.” was the simple reply, eyes softening nontheless. “Whatever.”
They stared at each other for a moment, one face filled with laughter, the other, so thankfully hidden, scowling with embarrassment.
“Can I come in?”
Gokudera squinted, glancing away as if weighing up the options. Slowly turning his gaze back, it was quite possible, behind the wonderful, wonderful cover of sheets, he smirked.
“What's the password?”
“Password?” Yamamoto blinked, sitting back on his heels, “Hm...lemme see...”
The Italian waited patiently, expecting a predictably stupid answer.
“Maybe...Vongola?”
“No.” Gokudera scoffed with a cocky contentment in his voice, “Way too simple.”
“Then...oh, how about baseball?” Yamamoto grinned, full of his childish charm, even as a grown man.
“How stupid are you, as if any person other than you would pick that for a password.”
“Then is 'idiot' the password?”
“No!”
“Storm.”
“No, Yamamoto.”
“Gokudera.”
“What?”
“No! Is Gokudera the password?”
“Is my own name the password, jeez, uh, lemme think; no.”
Yamamoto flicked his gaze across the room.
“Chair.”
“Uh, no.”
“Floor?”
“You're just guessing fucking words now, don't be an idiot!”
Laughter, relieved and genuinely happy, burst out across the room.
“Then is 'can I please come in and give you your present' the password?” the dark-haired man tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.
There was a pregnant, yet not uncomfortable, pause.
“I thought I told you not to bring me anything back?” Gokudera asked quietly, chiding and attempting to sound more annoyed than he clearly was.
“Did you?” the dark-haired man questioned without a hint of sincerity in his warm voice.
“...you're an idiot.” was the response, predictable as ever, “You have to get in between the chair and coffee table.”
With that, the sheet dropped and the eyes disappeared.
Yamamoto grinned, rising. After heading back to his suitcase and quickly pulling out the small black box tucked tightly in between the mess of unfolded, stained, burnt, scuffed and ripped clothing that he would no doubt get scolded for later, the man headed back to the fort and, manoeuvring his way around the edge that no doubt fit the smaller Italian with ease, got to his knees and lifted the corner of a sheet. Glancing under, the Japanese man laughed, eyes flicking around, impressed, before beginning to shuffle, practically army crawling the space was that small, into the cavern that held Gokudera.
“Careful, idiot,” the Italian grumbled, moving a glass and his half-full ashtray off the floor onto the seat of a chair by his side lest Yamamoto knock them over, “that's the weakest part of the construct.”
“My bad,” the other said cheerfully as he finally made his way in, “I like what you've done with the place, Gokudera.”
The silver-haired man tutted, his eyes rolling back as he slumped back again into his nest of pillows. The sheets were artfully arranged over his head, and, with the light shining through the cotton, it cast a dim, hazy glow across the Italian and his kingdom. Smiling to himself at the sight of Gokudera making himself comfortable again, Yamamoto couldn't help but notice the rather large but neatly stacked pile of books by the Italian's side, topped with the CD player's remote so as to control the horrible warbling from within his fortress. It was like some Arabian prince's tent, except minus the luxurious silks and velvets, and perhaps minus a few concubines.
“Does Uri not like it in here or something?” Yamamoto asked as he shuffled over to the nest, finally wondering why the cat wasn't with his master in such a paradise.
“No, he liked it,” the Italian said as he shifted over slightly to allow the other some room, “but he kept stinking the damn place up. I told him he smelt bad and he fucked off, he won't come back now.”
“You upset him,” the dark-haired man laughed, flopping down amongst the pillows and sighing out happily.
“He's just being an unfriendly bastard.”
“Seemed happy enough to welcome me home.”
“Yeah, well, he would wouldn't he.” Gokudera rolled his eyes again, picking up the open book from his side and beginning to thumb through it aimlessly.
Yamamoto watched him for a moment, wondering if the other had been reading in this dull light for the past day and a half and feeling vaguely concerned for Gokudera's already poor eyesight. Couldn't exactly be good for him, sitting in there with a book to his nose for hours on end, even when his vision began to get fuzzy and his glasses began to give him a headache, because he was too stubborn to put the book down before it was finished. Like the time Yamamoto had been woken at 3AM due to the Italian fussing next to him, uncomfortable and restless with dark circles under his eyes and with 50 pages to go. 'I have to finish it' the Italian had insisted when the other had pleaded with him to sleep, 'I just have to finish it'. Of course, Yamamoto was the stupid one for asking why he couldn't just finish it tomorrow morning. He'd rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, despite Gokudera's dim lamp light and continuous squirming.
“Hey...”
“Nn?” Gokudera glanced over from his book to the one lay by his side, looking up at him.
Lowering his gaze half an inch, the Italian noticed the box being held out to him, with a complimentary side order of sunny smiles. He tutted, his head shaking almost on reflex as he set his book down and plucked the gift from the other's hand, turning it between his own as he gave a suspicious look to the giver.
“What's...this in aid of?”
“Hm? Nothing.” Yamamoto replied honestly, eyes wide, “I just wanted to.”
“I told you not to though,” the Italian mumbled, looking back to the box which was still being rotated between his fingers, “it has to be for something.”
Yamamoto couldn't help but snort quietly.
“Then...” he mused aloud, looking to the ceiling of sheets, “it's for your half-birthday.”
“But it's not my half-birthday, and it isn't anytime soon. My real birthday is sooner!”
“Then,” the dark-haired man looked back, rolling onto his side and positioning himself on his elbow for a better view of the other, “happy not half birthday, Gokudera.”
There was a somewhat disbelieving silence on the Italian's end before he laughed, incredulously, utterly baffled by such a ridiculous statement.
“In which case,” Gokudera said with raised eyebrow and crooked smile as his fingers positioned themselves on the box lid, “happy not half birthday to you too, you big idiot.”
“Ha, thank you!”
“I didn't get you a present though, considered I didn't know we were celebrating,” the silver-haired man said lightly, cracking open the lid and letting it shut again.
“That's alright, I don't mind.” Yamamoto beamed, waiting expectantly for the smaller man to finally open the box.
Gokudera made a noise of approval as he again cracked open the lid, only to let it shut. It was like he was building himself up to it, or perhaps just dragging it out as long as possible. The Italian was one for 'delayed gratification', Yamamoto knew. For example, if he had a pile of paperwork, he would save the easiest sheets for last, just so he would appreciate them that much more, or, if he had some box of chocolates that he was hoarding to himself, he would save his favourites till last, just so he could enjoy them that little bit more. It was a bizarre system to Yamamoto, but he had learnt not to question it since the only answer he would get would be the scientific explanation of how the hormones and brain and blood pressure or something were much more grateful if you always saved the best till last.
So he simply watched as the lid cracked open and closed again, open and closed, open and closed, until finally it was opened, agonisingly slowly, with Gokudera squinting through the increasing gap as he attempted to work out what it was. The lid gave a sharp snapping noise as it finally clicked open, upright.
“...cufflinks?” he said, almost thinking aloud.
“Yep!” the taller man perked up, “I remember you lost that pair that were your favourites so I-”
“I didn't lose them, I threw them out.” Gokudera interrupted, throwing a disdainful look towards the other.
“...you threw out your favourite cufflinks?”
“...maybe.” the Italian quickly returned his gaze to the new set, grumbling, “Maybe Uri hid them or something, I don't remember, it was ages ago.”
“Ahaha, alright, of course,” Yamamoto laughed despite himself, and despite the annoyed frown that was forming on Gokudera's brow, “I'm sorry, I'd forgotten.”
“Just shut up about it.” the smaller huffed, pulling one link from its faux velvet seat and dangling it in front of his eyes, “They're not particularly like the others, unsurprisingly, but at least you didn't get any motifed ones, jeez.”
“What, like the baseball ones?”
“Yes, like the baseball ones.” Gokudera paused, then added as poorly faked innocent afterthought, “Uri hid those too.”
“Ah,” the Japanese man conceded with a short series of blinks before grinning, “the cat likes cufflinks, huh?”
“Yeah,” Gokudera agreed with an enthusiastic nod, “he likes cufflinks.”
“Do you like cufflinks, Gokudera?”
“I like some,” the Italian said with nose held high, “these are alright I suppose. Where are they from?”
“That store you took me to to get that suit.”
“Yamamoto, I must have taken you to about a hundred stores on fifty different occasions; you wanna narrow it down a little?”
“Oh,” the Japanese man laughed, rubbing a hand over his forehead tiredly, “then the store we actually bought the suit from. The suit you like. You know, the one you say looks good on m-”
“I know which suit you mean, idiot.” Gokudera snapped quickly, a faint pinkness appearing in the tips of his ears which was thankfully masked by the dim light of the fort, “And why the hell were you in Milan? You were supposed to be on the other side of the country!”
“I had a day spare-”
“Bullshit.”
“It's a long story.” Yamamoto concluded with gentle sigh.
“Well, don't bother telling me now, since I'm gonna have to read the report tomorrow anyway.”
“Which I'm going to have to write,” the dark-haired man groaned, covering his eyes with his hand.
“And no slacking off either,” Gokudera said with finality, closing the box gently and setting it onto the chair seat beside his ashtray, picking up his glass and taking a short sip from what remained, “Thanks I guess. For the gift.”
“You're welcome.” Yamamoto smiled warmly, knowing by the admiring looks that the cufflinks were far from the proclaimed 'alright' and would no doubt be accompanying his suit when he next went back to work.
Shuffling down, Gokudera held the glass out, sharply poking the hand covering Yamamoto's eyes with a ringed index finger. Parting his own digits, the Japanese man glanced out, only to remove his hand and gratefully take the glass, pushing himself again up on his elbow as he downed what was left, only to grimace as he handed the empty tumbler back.
“How do you,” the taller paused to cough slightly, “drink that stuff?”
“I like Bailey's.” Gokudera said frankly, taking the glass and setting it back on the chair, “The mint chocolate version is nicer than the original, but I still like it. And it's better when ice cold, it's been sat there a while.”
“I don't think it'd make a difference, really.” the dark-haired man lay back, dropping his head into the pillows.
“Of course it would. It's supposed to taste better when you have it with milk but, ugh, like hell am I putting milk in there.”
“Maybe that's why I don't like it then.” Yamamoto laughed, adjusting as the Italian settled down next to him, “Besides, should you be drinking at this time?”
“It was one glass, Yamamoto, jeez.” Gokudera grumbled whilst shuffling forward, tucking himself into the Japanese man's arm, which quickly accepted him, draping over his side and pressing to his back, warm through the thin t-shirt covering the Italian's skin, “You don't have to worry about me turning to alcohol for company in your absence just yet.”
“Ah, I'm glad,” the taller smiled as a silver head appeared underneath his chin, resting on the shoulder of the arm which he slowly stretched out, creating a cradle for that precious skull.
They lay in a whole twenty seconds of peaceful silence bar the horrible warbling music coming in between the cracks of the sheets before Gokudera's mouth couldn't help but open again.
“You stink as bad as the cat.” he said matter of factly, not moving an inch despite the apparent stench.
“'m sorry,” Yamamoto responded quietly, already half-asleep in the lulling warmth of the fort, with the comforting feel of Gokudera's body next to his again, “haven't showered yet.”
“How was it?”
“The flight?”
“Mn.”
“Long,” the dark-haired man laughed faintly, “got a little sleep though. It was ok, just the usual, you know.”
“Minus screaming children at least.”
“Yeah, there's definitely an upside to first class,” Yamamoto adjusted his head so he could press his lips to silver hair, nosing into it and breathing in the familiarity before suddenly pulling away, retracting his hand from Gokudera's back and delving into a pocket, “Oh, you reminded me!”
Pulling his cellphone from his suit jacket, the Japanese man held it into the air above them, Gokudera's head moving to the crook of his neck and squirming in a reluctant delight when Yamamoto's elbow bent and a large hand found its way to the Italian's scalp, fingers slipping between fine strands of hair and twirling them gently around. Flicking through screen after screen, Gokudera watched as Yamamoto's thumb pressed buttons in the air, searching for whatever it was that was so important.
“...there.”
Squinting slightly to focus his vision, Gokudera looked at the marginally blurry photo on the cellphone's screen. There was...blue, and what looked like marble, with people, or rather, blobs that Gokudera was assuming to be people, leaping around.
“Some kid got pushed in the fountain,” Yamamoto murmured, swiping his thumb slowly across the corner of the screen, “and all his friends followed in after him. Couldn't help but laugh, huh?”
“...yeah,” the Italian conceded with a small smile as he remembered, “guess so. Take it the natives weren't too impressed?”
“Some old couple stood next to me were horrified.” he laughed in answer, flicking through some more inconsequential pictures.
“I bet.” Gokudera said quietly, unable to help the growing smile on his face as the memory grew clearer in his head.
Some years ago, the first time they'd all travelled to Italy together, young and naïve still, mere tourists and reluctant tour guides (i.e. Gokudera). It was in a little neighbouring town to Vongola's kingdom that they'd been visiting, just simple sight seeing. They'd agreed to meet up in the piazza at around one, so they could get together to grab some lunch. Gokudera had been forced to keep the most hopeless with him due to the fact he was the only fluent speaker of Italian, and thus forced to babysit Yamamoto and Ryohei up until the point the boxer had wandered off without warning and gotten lost. Still, he'd turned up at the right time with lipstick on his collar and looking a bit bewildered, but he was there nontheless. Jumping upon the fountain wall, he'd begun his usual routine of generally being too loud and irritating, causing some mirth amongst the few people wandering past, and when a young Lambo had come dashing through with I-Pin and Haru hot on his heels, Ryohei didn't even notice as the child crashed into his knees and knocking him, flailing, backwards into the water.
Splashing a disgruntled Gokudera with his rather ungraceful landing, the boxer had simply sat up in the fountain and yelled something along the lines of 'woo an extreme water fight!' and hence splashed the silver-haired Italian, yowling like a cat, all over again. Furious and dripping, Gokudera had dived into the fountain despite himself and all his knowledge of etiquette, in the hopes of strangling the turf-headed idiot, only to be splashed and splashed and dragged into the water further. In an attempt to part the two, Yamamoto had quickly joined them, laughing brightly even as he got soaked to the skin, Lambo and I-Pin joining quickly whilst Haru attempted to coax them all out by the fountain wall, only getting drenched with rather misguided splashing. When Tsuna and Kyoko had appeared through the quickly gathering crowd, a look of blanched mortification had overtaken Vongola Tenth's face at the scene his guardians were making.
When everyone eventually got out of the fountain, soaking wet and shivering, grins plastered across dripping faces, there was tutting amongst the older passersby, discouragement from mother's to easily influenced children, and some stifled laughter from people who actually had a sense of humour. Suffice to say, they hadn't gone to lunch somewhere in the piazza.
The noise of a camera shutter snapped Gokudera from his reverie, eyes snapping open as he looked up to see the back of Yamamoto's cellphone hovering above them.
“What did you just do!” the Italian tensed, twisting his head and butting Yamamoto's chin in the process.
“I just took a picture,” Yamamoto protested, quickly closing the phone, “I don't have any of us together-”
“No!” Gokudera snarled, hand instantly launching up to grab for the phone, “Bastard, you don't just take pictures when people aren't aware like that, fuck! Delete it!”
“I don't want to, Gokudera!” the taller objected, wincing as a foot met with his shin and attempting to twist away from the writhing Italian, “Let me keep it!”
“No!”
The following tussle for possession of the phone, which entailed plenty of kicking and screeching on the smaller's part, plenty of laughter on the other's as Gokudera attempted to snatch the phone away, getting it once but not keeping it long enough to have time to delete said photo, or even look at it before it was removed from his clutches and Yamamoto was on top of him, pressing him down with his heavy body and bright grin.
“I'm keeping it.” he said softly as Gokudera calmed down, eyes wide and angry, struggling mildly under the other's weight and hissing pissily to himself when he was relieved of said weight, rolling onto his side to face away from the other, sulking.
Chuckling quietly and tucking the phone into his pocket again, Yamamoto curled up against him, pressing his chest flush to the other's back as he wrapped an arm around his slender waist. Kissing the back of his neck, the Japanese man made sure to press his lips gently to the two vertebrae he could reach above the collar of Gokudera's shirt as he nosed his way up to his hairline. The Italian simply grumbled in half-hearted protest, refusing to speak on principle.
Knowing when to leave it, lest the fiery Italian actually fall into a bad mood fuelled by loss, Yamamoto merely stayed quiet, content with lying there.
It didn't take him long to fall asleep, jetlagged and exhausted with travel.
And, it wasn't until later, at 10.23 pm when he woke up next to a fast asleep Gokudera who hadn't moved an inch, finally built up the energy to force himself from the fort and go and shower, did he think to pull the cellphone from his pocket as he undressed. He hadn't quite got why the Italian had been so embarrassed and reluctant to let Yamamoto keep the picture, but when he opened his phone and flipped onto the photo, noting with a burning warmth in the core of his being the hand clasped in his collar like it would never let go, the head in the crook of his neck and his hand laced gently into silver hair, the look of blissful contentment, unabashedly grateful happiness painted perfectly onto Gokudera's pale, smiling face...he understood.
It was good to be home.