KHR: Return on Investment [Prologue]
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So. I'm finally doing it.
I'm posting this thing. orz
A LITTLE BACKGROUND: This longfic was my NaNoWriMo project for 2008, although I've actually been itching to write it ever since I returned to the fandom early on this year. It's meant to take place ten years into the new future created by Tsuna and his crew after the TYL arc, and is slightly AU-ish with several details.
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Return on Investment
Prologue
Theme Song: To follow, with download link!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16
Rating: G
Characters: Gokudera (59), Yamamoto (80), mentions of others
Summary: Six years ago, up on the rooftop.
Notes: U-um. Please don't kill me? ;A;
Prologue.
The day was a blur of uniforms and voices, of the heat of the gymnasium and the cool breeze through the cherry blossoms, of nicotine jitters and waiting for the day to shut the fuck up and get over itself. His interaction with Tsuna that day was, as always, by distance: nine heads apart in the line to the first morning assembly of the year, three rows behind during their classes, the span of an arm as they took their lunch and twenty-five meters away (inclusive of crowd) after it was all over. He thought about getting close, maybe stepping up for a quick word or a glimpse of his smile, but something about the way his boss looked the moment Kyoko Sasagawa was in the vicinity made him think twice.
Gokudera Hayato headed for the rooftop of the Namimori’s main building, hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes on the steps he took on the way up. The grounds were deserted, and the whole place was awash with the colors of the setting sun; classes had ended some time ago, and none of the clubs had scheduled any activities due to the fact that the school year - their last year in high school - was just beginning. Normally, Gokudera would have been home hours ago, or at least wandering through Namimori, sometimes dropping in for a quick round at the game center or stopping by any one of the many food stalls at street corners for a bite before making his way back to his apartment. Something, however, had made him stay behind to haunt his school’s corridors rather than the town’s alleyways, and the mere thought of his unit made him feel claustrophobic. He told himself that it had nothing to do with the Tenth, with realizing that his boss sees him without seeing him, or watching him smile at somebody else. Sawada Tsuyanoshi could do him no wrong.
It was almost liberating, pushing the door back and taking that first step out onto the rooftop: he felt the weight of the day melt away from his shoulders the moment he got that first gulp of fresh air, even if its coldness - a sign of the season to come - cut at his lungs. Gokudera lingered a moment just past the doorway, eyes seeking out the exact height of the sky above him in the oranges, pinks and reds of the day’s end: he hadn’t realized how high the sky was until that moment. He had fallen out of the habit of looking up recently. The boy eventually dropped his eyes, and approached the chain-link fence, padding himself down in search of his second pack for the day.
“I was wondering when you’d come up.”
“What the - oh. It’s you.”
Yamamoto Takeshi merely grinned in response, oblivious, as always, to any negativity on Gokudera’s part. The dark-haired boy was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, back against the fence, hands occupied with stuffing his mouth full of the contents of the bento box in his lap. Gokudera scoffed. “You scared the shit out of me,” the silver-haired boy muttered as he turned towards the skyline. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack with his teeth.
“Ahaha… sorry?”
“You’re never sorry. What are you still doing here anyway?” He was being insufferable again and he knew it, but it didn’t feel right, not being rude to his fellow Guardian in every other sentence. Yamamoto, of course, laughed that just that sort of laugh that pissed him off the most, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
“I was waiting for you.”
There it was again, that ghost of the something lethal lurking just behind the smile of a baseball freak/oblivious idiot/thick-headed swordsman: it must have been in that particular curl of his lip, or maybe somewhere in his eyes. Gokudera tore himself away before he could end up staring for too long. Yamamoto was sure to notice; their time together in the future had taught Gokudera that Yamamoto apparently noticed a lot of things, more than he would ever say to anybody. Looking away quick enough, however, meant that Yamamoto couldn’t call him on it. That was all Gokudera needed.
“…Idiot.”
“Hungry?” Yamamoto turned, pulled out a second bento, smiled again. “You didn’t eat much during lunch.”
Gokudera answered him by plopping down and reaching for the lunchbox. Their fingers touched, just once.
---
They talked about all of the usual things - or more like, Yamamoto talked a lot, and Gokudera interjected every now and then, to either correct him or insult him (or both). They talked about classes, training, summer homework, where they’d gone off to over the vacation. They did not talk about where they had been before that, or about freedom, or choices, or rings, or responsibility. It wasn’t that they weren’t able to speak of it - previous experience had, in fact, taught them that the moment they started on those subjects, the words never seemed to stop coming. It was more like they weren’t supposed to, because the last member of their trio - the one who had brought them together in the first place - was absent, and without him around there was no telling where they’d end up the moment they opened their mouths. Hence, Gokudera had every right to worry the moment Yamamoto suddenly went from mundane baseball talk to the downright unspeakable.
“You’re never going to tell him, are you?”
Eight words and he was already wants Yamamoto to shut up, because every word brings him back to classroom encounters and rumpled beds, to confused kissing behind the dugout and hand jobs in the bathroom. The story of them had begun with them staying up late one night to cram a school project. It had taken teenaged curiosity over the sake Yamamoto’s father had brought home from Hokkaido and a stupid comment from the Yamamoto’s end of the field, observations on Gokudera’s behavior that he really could have done without. Of that night, he told himself that he remembered nothing but anger (white hot) and lips (wet kissing). He buried the rest with choice words and cigarettes.
“It’s okay, you know… I can take it. I’ll deal with whatever you want to throw at me. It shouldn’t be a problem if we do it like that, right?”
“We don’t have anything.”
“You don’t have to love me the same way you love him.”
“We don’t have anything.”
“I’m fine with it, really.”
You don’t know that, Gokudera wanted to say, but doing that was like acknowledging that they had something when he had already insisted, as he did many times before, that they didn’t. The boy stood up instead, and walked towards that halfway point between the fence and his only way out. He did not want to turn around, did not want to face Yamamoto and end up studying the deepening shadows in the other boy’s eyes.
He did not trust himself anymore; he had stopped months back, when he had reached out across a kitchen table in search of an answer and found nothing but Sawada Tsunayoshi’s bewildered brown eyes and the makings of a betrayal. Never again, he had told himself at that point, and he had made it work by keeping his distance. But he also told himself the same thing every time he had felt the need to hide in Yamamoto’s arms, and he was still in the process of remembering how to let go.
“I can wait for you, if that’s what you need. I’m always going to be right here.”
And the only answer Yamamoto received was the slightest turn of Gokudera’s head, a flash of green eyes, a shock of silver hair, footsteps, and the swing of a metal door, lighter than their words.
---
It was only when he was back in that tiny little room with a bed he never really slept in and the fridge full of food that he never really ate that Gokudera remembered the taste of cheap sushi/the smell of Yamamoto’s skin and allowed himself to cry.
So. I'm finally doing it.
I'm posting this thing. orz
A LITTLE BACKGROUND: This longfic was my NaNoWriMo project for 2008, although I've actually been itching to write it ever since I returned to the fandom early on this year. It's meant to take place ten years into the new future created by Tsuna and his crew after the TYL arc, and is slightly AU-ish with several details.
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Return on Investment
Prologue
Theme Song: To follow, with download link!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16
Rating: G
Characters: Gokudera (59), Yamamoto (80), mentions of others
Summary: Six years ago, up on the rooftop.
Notes: U-um. Please don't kill me? ;A;
Prologue.
The day was a blur of uniforms and voices, of the heat of the gymnasium and the cool breeze through the cherry blossoms, of nicotine jitters and waiting for the day to shut the fuck up and get over itself. His interaction with Tsuna that day was, as always, by distance: nine heads apart in the line to the first morning assembly of the year, three rows behind during their classes, the span of an arm as they took their lunch and twenty-five meters away (inclusive of crowd) after it was all over. He thought about getting close, maybe stepping up for a quick word or a glimpse of his smile, but something about the way his boss looked the moment Kyoko Sasagawa was in the vicinity made him think twice.
Gokudera Hayato headed for the rooftop of the Namimori’s main building, hands in the pockets of his pants, eyes on the steps he took on the way up. The grounds were deserted, and the whole place was awash with the colors of the setting sun; classes had ended some time ago, and none of the clubs had scheduled any activities due to the fact that the school year - their last year in high school - was just beginning. Normally, Gokudera would have been home hours ago, or at least wandering through Namimori, sometimes dropping in for a quick round at the game center or stopping by any one of the many food stalls at street corners for a bite before making his way back to his apartment. Something, however, had made him stay behind to haunt his school’s corridors rather than the town’s alleyways, and the mere thought of his unit made him feel claustrophobic. He told himself that it had nothing to do with the Tenth, with realizing that his boss sees him without seeing him, or watching him smile at somebody else. Sawada Tsuyanoshi could do him no wrong.
It was almost liberating, pushing the door back and taking that first step out onto the rooftop: he felt the weight of the day melt away from his shoulders the moment he got that first gulp of fresh air, even if its coldness - a sign of the season to come - cut at his lungs. Gokudera lingered a moment just past the doorway, eyes seeking out the exact height of the sky above him in the oranges, pinks and reds of the day’s end: he hadn’t realized how high the sky was until that moment. He had fallen out of the habit of looking up recently. The boy eventually dropped his eyes, and approached the chain-link fence, padding himself down in search of his second pack for the day.
“I was wondering when you’d come up.”
“What the - oh. It’s you.”
Yamamoto Takeshi merely grinned in response, oblivious, as always, to any negativity on Gokudera’s part. The dark-haired boy was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, back against the fence, hands occupied with stuffing his mouth full of the contents of the bento box in his lap. Gokudera scoffed. “You scared the shit out of me,” the silver-haired boy muttered as he turned towards the skyline. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack with his teeth.
“Ahaha… sorry?”
“You’re never sorry. What are you still doing here anyway?” He was being insufferable again and he knew it, but it didn’t feel right, not being rude to his fellow Guardian in every other sentence. Yamamoto, of course, laughed that just that sort of laugh that pissed him off the most, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
“I was waiting for you.”
There it was again, that ghost of the something lethal lurking just behind the smile of a baseball freak/oblivious idiot/thick-headed swordsman: it must have been in that particular curl of his lip, or maybe somewhere in his eyes. Gokudera tore himself away before he could end up staring for too long. Yamamoto was sure to notice; their time together in the future had taught Gokudera that Yamamoto apparently noticed a lot of things, more than he would ever say to anybody. Looking away quick enough, however, meant that Yamamoto couldn’t call him on it. That was all Gokudera needed.
“…Idiot.”
“Hungry?” Yamamoto turned, pulled out a second bento, smiled again. “You didn’t eat much during lunch.”
Gokudera answered him by plopping down and reaching for the lunchbox. Their fingers touched, just once.
---
They talked about all of the usual things - or more like, Yamamoto talked a lot, and Gokudera interjected every now and then, to either correct him or insult him (or both). They talked about classes, training, summer homework, where they’d gone off to over the vacation. They did not talk about where they had been before that, or about freedom, or choices, or rings, or responsibility. It wasn’t that they weren’t able to speak of it - previous experience had, in fact, taught them that the moment they started on those subjects, the words never seemed to stop coming. It was more like they weren’t supposed to, because the last member of their trio - the one who had brought them together in the first place - was absent, and without him around there was no telling where they’d end up the moment they opened their mouths. Hence, Gokudera had every right to worry the moment Yamamoto suddenly went from mundane baseball talk to the downright unspeakable.
“You’re never going to tell him, are you?”
Eight words and he was already wants Yamamoto to shut up, because every word brings him back to classroom encounters and rumpled beds, to confused kissing behind the dugout and hand jobs in the bathroom. The story of them had begun with them staying up late one night to cram a school project. It had taken teenaged curiosity over the sake Yamamoto’s father had brought home from Hokkaido and a stupid comment from the Yamamoto’s end of the field, observations on Gokudera’s behavior that he really could have done without. Of that night, he told himself that he remembered nothing but anger (white hot) and lips (wet kissing). He buried the rest with choice words and cigarettes.
“It’s okay, you know… I can take it. I’ll deal with whatever you want to throw at me. It shouldn’t be a problem if we do it like that, right?”
“We don’t have anything.”
“You don’t have to love me the same way you love him.”
“We don’t have anything.”
“I’m fine with it, really.”
You don’t know that, Gokudera wanted to say, but doing that was like acknowledging that they had something when he had already insisted, as he did many times before, that they didn’t. The boy stood up instead, and walked towards that halfway point between the fence and his only way out. He did not want to turn around, did not want to face Yamamoto and end up studying the deepening shadows in the other boy’s eyes.
He did not trust himself anymore; he had stopped months back, when he had reached out across a kitchen table in search of an answer and found nothing but Sawada Tsunayoshi’s bewildered brown eyes and the makings of a betrayal. Never again, he had told himself at that point, and he had made it work by keeping his distance. But he also told himself the same thing every time he had felt the need to hide in Yamamoto’s arms, and he was still in the process of remembering how to let go.
“I can wait for you, if that’s what you need. I’m always going to be right here.”
And the only answer Yamamoto received was the slightest turn of Gokudera’s head, a flash of green eyes, a shock of silver hair, footsteps, and the swing of a metal door, lighter than their words.
---
It was only when he was back in that tiny little room with a bed he never really slept in and the fridge full of food that he never really ate that Gokudera remembered the taste of cheap sushi/the smell of Yamamoto’s skin and allowed himself to cry.