Time traveller
Title: Time traveller (Lame title, I know. I suck at this shit.)
Author: Kanon
Genre: Romance/Angst…?
Rating: PG13 because it’s Gokudera.
Pairing: 80TYL!59, Yamamoto Takeshi x TYL!Gokudera Hayato (Implied TYL!80TYL!59)
Disclaimer: Me owns no mafia, no rings, no money; nothing but the perversity of a fangirl.
Distribution: LJ
Summary: Yamamoto Takeshi is always here when Gokudera Hayato is walking down.
Spoilers: The beginning of TYL Arc
Warning: F***, f***, f***, f***. It’s Gokudera. *shrugs* Unbetaed. First attempt at 8059. Written out of whim.
Author’s Note:
It was supposed to be only a drabble out of sudden inspirational whim. As usual, I rambled on. So it’s not a drabble any more. Sorry about the shitty title. I couldn’t come up with anything.
:::::Time traveller by Kanon:::::
“…Fuck.”
You hate it. You’ve never time-travelled before and people --a person, a Yamamoto-- say you should at least give a second chance to anything new you try but you know that you hate the accursed journey and you are probably still going to hate it even when it is for you to return to your own time. Your hair is all flicking outwards in some random modern abstract art style --that sickly pink tunnel just had too much statics-- and you have managed to land on your arse, looking absolutely great.
It does not take you long to realize where you are. In fact, it takes less than a blink because you have been where you are now more than countless times, almost all of them spent growling at yakyu-baka because somehow, somehow, that idiot will simply be there no matter what time you are walking down the street. By the time you no longer growl but instead throw dynamites because the natural born hitman kissed you in the broad daylight in the middle of the street, Tenth has moved his house and so it is a different street you demolished but that still did not change the fact that he was always there.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-… Enough.
You stand up. You pat the dirt away from the Versace suit, about to swear again because that was your favourite suite you usually reserved for the really important stuff --like visiting the Tenth’s coffin-- then stop because you have told yourself enough. One single smooth run dampens down all those crazy runaway hairs. You quite like your hair; it gives you that badass look easily when you want but knows to obey your touch when need be. Not the fucking point here, you growl at yourself. You’ve got a bad habit of digressing when you get overly anxious; surprisingly it’s the Rain Guardian who noticed it first because it’s the same idiot that puts you in the most flustered, nervous state you will never admit with one single stare from the sweltering olive eyes that does not befit the zillion-watts smile.
Deep breathe in and out. Just once. No more. You don’t need any more. Your hand shoots out for the inner pocket of the black jacket even without the cognitive instructions from the brain and with a click that echoes too loudly in the sunlit street, a trail of grey smoke rises to the air. You don’t suck in the cancer stick as greedily as you probably would have liked to because you’ve already done that calming-breathing-meditation shit. You are the Vongola Tenth’s right hand man. Hence you do not panic. Just one long inhale and exhale to catch your breath is sufficient and when you open your eyes, you tell yourself you’re ready. Whether you actually feel like it or not, that’s a different matter and one that doesn’t make any difference. You take one step; then stop. A tiny little fact that you have overlooked rears its head again.
Yamamoto Takeshi is always here when Gokudera Hayato is walking down.
This is the world ten years ago. Tenth hasn’t moved yet. And your younger self was here, walking down the same street, breaking the record for yet another day.
Fuck.
You panic a little. Just a little. It’s just that you can’t decide whether it’s okay for you to see the younger yakyu-baka or not. This is why you hate time-travelling; it’s goddamn complicated physics and it just fucks everything up. But you need to make the decision quick. At the same time, you wonder if you are not just making an arse of yourself, whipping your head around like a prey about to get hunted down. Knowing the idiot, you probably should not be surprised to see the Yamamoto Takeshi you know turning around that corner instead of the younger one.
Then it’s all over.
“Ah, Gokudera! Are you going to Tsu-“ Fuck. It’s the younger one. With the juvenile, large, puppy-sized olives blinking in surprise. With the unadulterated, fucking blinding smile. With the blue bag for his baseball bat slung over his shoulder. It overlaps with the blue sheath that the older Yamamoto has over his shoulder and for once, you think you might --just might-- actually prefer the baseball equipment to the katana because in the world you come from, even the Yamamoto Takeshi has had to give up his nonsense; and in a not-really-but-kind-of way, you sort of miss it. “Wow, Gokudera. That’s some growth spurt you’ve had over in one night!”
Normally you would have conked him out. With a punch, with dynamite, with a box weapon; whatever is available is always good enough. But you stare, and stare, and stare and it’s unbelievably bizarre beyond description to be looking down at the uselessly tall Rain Guardian.
“Hey, it’s not just growth spurt… you actually aged! Hahahahaha!! How did you do that, Gokudera? Was it a penalty for a game you lo-?!”
Before you know it, you have moved. The cigarette has fallen out of your mouth and its light crushed out by your careless and hurried step. The one step that had seemed so hard just a few seconds ago is now like gliding on slippery ice as you all but rush forward and engulf the naively laughing teen in your arms. It’s surreal, it’s strange, and in a way, it’s sort of wrong feeling because the only person that ever was a size that you could wrap your arms around was Tenth and this lean but well-toned body is not what Tenth would feel like, not with the inexhaustible energy humming in the muscles 24/7. You only know what it’s like to lay your head on the blue-shirted shoulder, you only know what it’s like to have the scarred chin gently nudging you from the top of your head. So it’s odd that it’s your shoulder the short black hairs are resting on, that it’s your chin those spikes are tickling.
Nevertheless, you feel a wave of peace, alleviation, tranquillity, comfort, relief; everything that is not nicotine, however much you had wanted to believe so in the past, and you think to yourself-
This is Yamamoto Takeshi.
You’re not anxious anymore; not that you were but you definitely aren’t now. You don’t need another cigarette. Hell, you feel like you could even come to like the frilly pink, fan-static tunnel.
Then a muffled voice brings you out of whatever the la-la-land --cloud nine-- you have entered.
“Eh, Gokudera? Just what game were you playing to end up with... this kind of penalty??”
The voice is jubilant but this is the man you have spent 10 years with, albeit younger. You can hear the subtle strain, the veiled uncertainty and anxiety and a tiny, tiny bit of hope. You are not surprised; you --not the younger you but the older you-- know it has been longer than 10 years since the calming Rain has been infatuated with the surging Storm.
It doesn’t mean the question doesn’t piss you off with its stupidity. So you’re torn between bashing the head buried in your chest and being honest for once, but then…
Why the hell bother making a decision when you can do both?
A dull smack sound doesn’t travel far but the merry-go-luck laughter that follows it does. And with an irritated scoff, you walk away, saying-
“It was not a fucking penalty for any kind of game, you moron.”
Author: Kanon
Genre: Romance/Angst…?
Rating: PG13 because it’s Gokudera.
Pairing: 80TYL!59, Yamamoto Takeshi x TYL!Gokudera Hayato (Implied TYL!80TYL!59)
Disclaimer: Me owns no mafia, no rings, no money; nothing but the perversity of a fangirl.
Distribution: LJ
Summary: Yamamoto Takeshi is always here when Gokudera Hayato is walking down.
Spoilers: The beginning of TYL Arc
Warning: F***, f***, f***, f***. It’s Gokudera. *shrugs* Unbetaed. First attempt at 8059. Written out of whim.
Author’s Note:
It was supposed to be only a drabble out of sudden inspirational whim. As usual, I rambled on. So it’s not a drabble any more. Sorry about the shitty title. I couldn’t come up with anything.
:::::Time traveller by Kanon:::::
“…Fuck.”
You hate it. You’ve never time-travelled before and people --a person, a Yamamoto-- say you should at least give a second chance to anything new you try but you know that you hate the accursed journey and you are probably still going to hate it even when it is for you to return to your own time. Your hair is all flicking outwards in some random modern abstract art style --that sickly pink tunnel just had too much statics-- and you have managed to land on your arse, looking absolutely great.
It does not take you long to realize where you are. In fact, it takes less than a blink because you have been where you are now more than countless times, almost all of them spent growling at yakyu-baka because somehow, somehow, that idiot will simply be there no matter what time you are walking down the street. By the time you no longer growl but instead throw dynamites because the natural born hitman kissed you in the broad daylight in the middle of the street, Tenth has moved his house and so it is a different street you demolished but that still did not change the fact that he was always there.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-… Enough.
You stand up. You pat the dirt away from the Versace suit, about to swear again because that was your favourite suite you usually reserved for the really important stuff --like visiting the Tenth’s coffin-- then stop because you have told yourself enough. One single smooth run dampens down all those crazy runaway hairs. You quite like your hair; it gives you that badass look easily when you want but knows to obey your touch when need be. Not the fucking point here, you growl at yourself. You’ve got a bad habit of digressing when you get overly anxious; surprisingly it’s the Rain Guardian who noticed it first because it’s the same idiot that puts you in the most flustered, nervous state you will never admit with one single stare from the sweltering olive eyes that does not befit the zillion-watts smile.
Deep breathe in and out. Just once. No more. You don’t need any more. Your hand shoots out for the inner pocket of the black jacket even without the cognitive instructions from the brain and with a click that echoes too loudly in the sunlit street, a trail of grey smoke rises to the air. You don’t suck in the cancer stick as greedily as you probably would have liked to because you’ve already done that calming-breathing-meditation shit. You are the Vongola Tenth’s right hand man. Hence you do not panic. Just one long inhale and exhale to catch your breath is sufficient and when you open your eyes, you tell yourself you’re ready. Whether you actually feel like it or not, that’s a different matter and one that doesn’t make any difference. You take one step; then stop. A tiny little fact that you have overlooked rears its head again.
Yamamoto Takeshi is always here when Gokudera Hayato is walking down.
This is the world ten years ago. Tenth hasn’t moved yet. And your younger self was here, walking down the same street, breaking the record for yet another day.
Fuck.
You panic a little. Just a little. It’s just that you can’t decide whether it’s okay for you to see the younger yakyu-baka or not. This is why you hate time-travelling; it’s goddamn complicated physics and it just fucks everything up. But you need to make the decision quick. At the same time, you wonder if you are not just making an arse of yourself, whipping your head around like a prey about to get hunted down. Knowing the idiot, you probably should not be surprised to see the Yamamoto Takeshi you know turning around that corner instead of the younger one.
Then it’s all over.
“Ah, Gokudera! Are you going to Tsu-“ Fuck. It’s the younger one. With the juvenile, large, puppy-sized olives blinking in surprise. With the unadulterated, fucking blinding smile. With the blue bag for his baseball bat slung over his shoulder. It overlaps with the blue sheath that the older Yamamoto has over his shoulder and for once, you think you might --just might-- actually prefer the baseball equipment to the katana because in the world you come from, even the Yamamoto Takeshi has had to give up his nonsense; and in a not-really-but-kind-of way, you sort of miss it. “Wow, Gokudera. That’s some growth spurt you’ve had over in one night!”
Normally you would have conked him out. With a punch, with dynamite, with a box weapon; whatever is available is always good enough. But you stare, and stare, and stare and it’s unbelievably bizarre beyond description to be looking down at the uselessly tall Rain Guardian.
“Hey, it’s not just growth spurt… you actually aged! Hahahahaha!! How did you do that, Gokudera? Was it a penalty for a game you lo-?!”
Before you know it, you have moved. The cigarette has fallen out of your mouth and its light crushed out by your careless and hurried step. The one step that had seemed so hard just a few seconds ago is now like gliding on slippery ice as you all but rush forward and engulf the naively laughing teen in your arms. It’s surreal, it’s strange, and in a way, it’s sort of wrong feeling because the only person that ever was a size that you could wrap your arms around was Tenth and this lean but well-toned body is not what Tenth would feel like, not with the inexhaustible energy humming in the muscles 24/7. You only know what it’s like to lay your head on the blue-shirted shoulder, you only know what it’s like to have the scarred chin gently nudging you from the top of your head. So it’s odd that it’s your shoulder the short black hairs are resting on, that it’s your chin those spikes are tickling.
Nevertheless, you feel a wave of peace, alleviation, tranquillity, comfort, relief; everything that is not nicotine, however much you had wanted to believe so in the past, and you think to yourself-
This is Yamamoto Takeshi.
You’re not anxious anymore; not that you were but you definitely aren’t now. You don’t need another cigarette. Hell, you feel like you could even come to like the frilly pink, fan-static tunnel.
Then a muffled voice brings you out of whatever the la-la-land --cloud nine-- you have entered.
“Eh, Gokudera? Just what game were you playing to end up with... this kind of penalty??”
The voice is jubilant but this is the man you have spent 10 years with, albeit younger. You can hear the subtle strain, the veiled uncertainty and anxiety and a tiny, tiny bit of hope. You are not surprised; you --not the younger you but the older you-- know it has been longer than 10 years since the calming Rain has been infatuated with the surging Storm.
It doesn’t mean the question doesn’t piss you off with its stupidity. So you’re torn between bashing the head buried in your chest and being honest for once, but then…
Why the hell bother making a decision when you can do both?
A dull smack sound doesn’t travel far but the merry-go-luck laughter that follows it does. And with an irritated scoff, you walk away, saying-
“It was not a fucking penalty for any kind of game, you moron.”