KHR: Return on Investment [Chapter One]
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Return on Investment
Chapter One: Why I'm not where you are.
Theme Song: To follow, with download link!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | 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: PG
Characters: Yamamoto (80), Gokudera (59), a cameo from another series that I love, a bit of Lambo and mentions of others
Summary: Six years later, and an ocean apart.
Notes: 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. The title of this chapter is taken from the 31_days theme for November 4, 2005.
Chapter One: Why I’m not where you are.
Six years later, Japan Side.
He found himself remembering Namimori - or more specifically, the rooftop of the school where he had spent years of his childhood in - at the oddest times. Of course, he had long realized that he wasn’t like most people, and thus ‘odd’ needed some qualifications. In that particular case, ‘odd’ meant moments where he wasn’t supposed to be using his head, where he should have been completely immersed in instinct, in the realm of the physical: the split second between a pitcher’s toss and his last big swing, the heartbeat before he had to gun for the next base. He did not normally mind, because those odd recollections usually helped him win the game at hand for his team. Today been no exception.
“…All right, Yuu-chan, up and at em…”
Yamamoto Takeshi slipped his arms underneath his teammate’s armpits and lifted the smaller man up as gently as he could; Tajima Yuuichirou only snorted in response, and his head lolled back and around, prompting Yamamoto to scramble to straighten him up rather than risk having him burp or puke in his face. Their years together in the Hanshin Tigers had taught Yamamoto to never doubt Tajima when it came to drinking whole battalions of well-wishers and teammates under the table, but he also knew that they had celebrated their victory - their last for the season, and the one that had won them the championship for the third year in a row - just a little too well this time around. The fact that Tajima had pulled a lampshade over his head and started on the chinko jokes was proof enough.
His cellular phone started ringing right when Yamamoto was in the middle of navigating through mountains of pizza boxes, beer bottles at a thousand different degrees of empty or full and the huddled or sprawled islands of sleeping teammates. Yamamoto ignored it to the best of his abilities, as he wanted to focus on getting Tajima to the couch first and making sure the little guy would at least be somewhat comfortable before jogging to the fridge for a bottle of water. He made it out of the house and answered his phone, just as the caller made a second attempt at contacting him.
“Oi, what took you so long? You with a girl or something?”
“Ahaha… I was last week, if it counts.”
“How was she?”
“Win the championship next season and I just might tell you.”
Haruna Motoki chuckled on the other end of the line. Yamamoto took in a deep whiff of the night air and decided that it really was a nice night to be up and about. The batter cradled his phone between the crook of his neck and his shoulder as he fiddled with his bottle. He’d never tell his coach this (the man loved his booze and had the propensity to judge people who didn’t love it as much as he did a little too quickly), but what he loved most about their after-parties was when the actual booze stopped flowing and he got to drink something more to his tastes.
“I didn’t catch you on the way out. I wanted to ask about what you said this afternoon.”
“Ah.”
“So it’s true then? You’re leaving?”
“I’ll only miss a month of the season. Maybe a little more, if something comes up.”
“It’s going to be boring without you around.”
“You’ll still have Tajima.”
“It’s not the same if there’s just one of you Tigers to knock down!”
Yamamoto chuckled. If there was one thing that he appreciated about the world of sports, it’s the fact that it was the only world where rivalries bred long-lasting friendships that didn’t require a regular dose of death and destruction to maintain. A dugout the occasional phone call was more than enough.
“So tell me why you’re going before the rumor mill makes me think all sorts of weird stuff about you.”
“A friend of mine’s getting married.”
“Haa? And you’re leaving for almost eight months just for that?”
“Um… he’s a really, really good friend of mine?”
“What are you, his wedding planner?”
“No, but I’m probably going to be his planner’s lackey until the big day arrives.”
“I don’t get you, man.”
Yamamoto laughed again. “I better go,” he said into the receiver, after a small pause. “Want anything from Italy?”
“A David apron!”
“A… what?”
“You’ll find out when you get there. Can’t miss it!”
“Ahaha, all right, whatever you say.”
Yamamoto hung up as he made his way into the house, retracing his steps (carefully) through the carnage in order to retrieve his bag. He took one last look at his teammates before he stepped out, almost certain that he wasn’t going to have that kind of party where he was going. The crowd back in Italy was an entirely different set of people, and he’d have to keep up appearances the moment he arrived.
The apartment had been a gift from the team manager in the second year of his career, a sort of Thank You for Single-handedly Turning the Team Around Gift. Prior to Yamamoto’s arrival (and later, Tajima’s), the Tigers had been on a losing streak against the Giants - the manager was thoroughly convinced that his batter was the main reason why they were doing spectacularly as of late, and was constantly asking Yamamoto whether the apartment was being put to good use (i.e. if he was housing some nice girl there that nobody, not even the gossip columnists, knew about). Yamamoto wasn’t about to tell him that he barely set foot in the place whenever he was in Koushien, and there was no girl there - only loads of things that his manager was sure to find very boring, although he couldn’t say the same for the local authorities. This week had been the exception, and it wasn’t just because of the game. There were lots of things to pack up, lots of things that needed proper disguises in order to go past the borders that he’d be crossing by tomorrow.
Four in the morning, and Yamamoto found himself sitting cross-legged under the light with a can of iced coffee just at his knee, surrounded by boxes neatly flipped and taped and stamped with that a very familiar crest. He was far past the point where the sight of his bed would have been tempting, and somewhere close to that stage where sleeping was probably pointless, given the time that he was planning on leaving town. He knew, though, that the road home was a long one, and he was going to need as many hours as he could get.
It hit him again, sometime after a warm shower and right before he rested his head on his pillow: the feel of a chain-link fence against his back, the smell of Italian cigarettes, the image of sad green eyes. There had been so much between that and where he was now, so many other moments for him and that other to be alone by being together, but that one conversation at the rooftop of Namimori Academy had been the last time they had ever been completely honest with each other. Back then he had still hoped that things would change. Now, six years later and more than an ocean away, Yamamoto fell asleep, knowing full well that they probably wouldn’t.
(The difference, however, between the him back then and the him now, was that maybe this time, he really was all right with it.)
Six years later, Italy Side.
He doesn’t really think much about Japan all that much anymore, or the way things used to be: he stopped doing that when he discovered that remembering the past was counter-productive to living in the now, protecting the now. There were many ghosts there, too many possibilities and maybes to consider. Far and enough that common people had always carried their own fair share of regrets on their shoulders - what more someone like him, someone who was always a step ahead of the rest, who couldn’t help but see life as a set of endless, ever-expanding set of patterns? So, to stop himself from going crazy by considering the could-have-beens versus the should-have-beens, he had simply opted to stop thinking about it altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had pretended that he was a punk with no past and an uncertain future. And, when people asked, the excuse he always had at hand was that Japan was Hibari Kyouya’s territory, and, Family or no, he really couldn’t stand that guy.
Gokudera Hayato squatted beside the nearest body and turned the corpse over, checking to see if the dead guy had a lighter on him. He needed to smoke now that it was all over, and true to his rotten luck, his lighter had gotten lost somewhere between killing people and killing some more people. Given the fact that he had spent most of his evening running all over the compound, he figured that it was useless to try to look for it. That annoyed him, just a little. It had been a damned good lighter. The silver-haired mafioso eventually found what he was looking for and stood up, fumbled around in search of his pack, tried and failed to light up around three times before it worked out; the nicotine jitters predictably made things difficult. A disapproving growl sounded from the other end of the room. Gokudera looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the source.
“…What are you looking at me for?”
Uri only narrowed his eyes, looked at the cigarette perched on Gokudera’s mouth, and growled again. The big cat had curled up in one corner with a dying man pinned beneath one paw; the flame at the tip of his tongue and along his spine flickered, brighter than all of the other sources of the light in the room. Gokudera turned away with a rueful shake of his head.
“Don’t worry, Uri. I doubt cancer can kill me even if it wanted to.”
His box creature was not content with his answer (it was obvious in the way the flaming feline’s eyes narrowed only further and a deeper sound rumbled out from his throat), but this was a long-standing argument with them, and Gokudera always won by ignoring the disapproval and lighting up another.
The first three people who attempted to call Gokudera in the minutes that followed were pointedly ignored - he knew, without looking at his phone, that they couldn’t have been anyone else other than Basil, Shamal and Bianchi. Basil was probably out to nag him about things that he had probably already taken care of; Shamal was likely bored and drunk, looking for a quick and stupid conversation about this-and-that-conquest or so-and-so-woman. As for Bianchi… Gokudera still wondered why his sister even bothered calling to check up on him after every one of his solo operations, given the fact that he tried to avoid speaking to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Gokudera, however, made sure to pick up the fourth call he received. He told himself that this was because this next caller was sure to whine if he didn’t answer.
“Bianchi wants me to tell you that you ought to learn how to answer your phone.”
“And I want you to tell my sister that I only answer relevant calls while I’m on the job.”
“You mean this call is relevant?”
Gokudera only sighed. “Why are you still up, Lambo? Kids like you should be in bed.”
“You’re not the only one who’s got stuff to do tonight!”
Lambo Bovino had come a long way from being the snot-nosed, bovine crybaby that Gokudera had met back in Namimori. While the cow prints, the ridiculous perkiness and the irrational love for exploding things had not really changed, Lambo had, at least, learned to perform more and snivel less during the ten years he had spent as the Vongola Family’s number one sniper and the Tenth’s bodyguard. Because he was the boss’ right hand man, Gokudera had spent most his career working closely with the other Guardians, forging connections that went beyond their individual differences. His connection with Lambo, however, ran a little deeper than usual. There were, after all, times when the Thunder Guardian felt more like family than his own sister did.
Gokudera, of course, would never admit that out loud, and most especially not to Lambo. If he did, he was never going to hear the end of it.
They continued their conversation as Gokudera made his way out of the compound with Uri right at his heels, talking about family matters as the Storm Guardian moved through blood-splattered hallways and blasted corridors. He and Uri were no longer alone with the dead - a small contingent of men from the main house had arrived, moving in to handle the clean-up in Gokudera’s place. He interrupted his conversation with Lambo every now and then to give short and curt instructions, or to scold whoever happened to be doing something or the other wrong as he passed by. Jobs like this were things that the Tenth did not need to do and did not turn his eyes towards unless he didn’t have a choice - Gokudera made sure of that. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to stand for things being less than perfect.
“Y’know, Hayato-nii,” said Lambo sometime later, after Gokudera was settled in the back seat of the car they had prepared for him and well on the way home, “it’s kind of amazing.”
“What is?”
“We’ve been talking for the last thirty minutes, and you didn’t mention the boss once! That’s a new record for you!”
“It’s my job to keep tabs on him.”
“But I’m the one who’s actually watching over him right now, y’know. I’ve got his back too.”
Gokudera did not answer immediately; he leaned back, smoking through yet another cigarette, idly stroking Uri’s head from where the big cat had laid it on his lap. The light from the streetlamps cut into the dark peace of the car at regular intervals, washing everything in odd yellow light for split seconds at a time.
“…How is he, though? The boss, I mean.”
“Pretty okay. The old fogeys had another debate over the Tomaso house, so Basil and I went with him since the others were busy.”
“And the meeting?”
“No clue~ I was on sniper duty up on the roof!”
“I see.” Gokudera made a mental note to ask later, and be prepared to check the files if Tsuna did not feel comfortable with answering him. “Check on him later. I’ll be home soon.”
“You’re going to say that I’m being a nosy brat for this-”
“That’s because you are one.”
“-but you worry about him too much.”
“Later, Lambo.”
And Gokudera hung up, because it was the easier thing to do.
It was tempting to simply dump his stuff somewhere and crawl right into bed the moment he reached his room: given the fact that he had been up since two in the morning and doing operations much like the one he had come from since breakfast (which hadn’t really been breakfast, more like cold eggs, colder toast and practically frozen bacon), he probably deserved it. One look at himself in the mirror, however, stopped him short. Gokudera stared, turned away with a curse to pull his shoes off and shove his jacket off his shoulders. He had liked the shirt he was wearing… now it was ruined beyond repair. The women in the estate weren’t going to try and wash that much blood out, even if he begged them to. There was little that they could do against that many bullet holes either.
Hot water was, in his experience, supposed to help one out when one was past the point of bone-numbing exhaustion, but Gokudera could barely bring himself to relax underneath the jet of the shower head. The Storm Guardian lingered inside the stall for a long time, slumped forward, watching the water drain away just at his feet in a futile attempt to clear his head of the noise. By the time he remembered to step out, he had two hours before sunrise and the mandatory post-mission report still hadn’t been done. He wasn’t on any deadline beyond whatever he set for himself, but that was all that somebody like him needed in order to kick himself into action.
Gokudera was halfway to his desk when he discovered that his cigarettes were out, and the pack had been last in the ream. The half-Italian cursed, spent a few useless moments flailing about in search of a pack or a stick that he might have missed in the mess of papers, file cases and other paraphernalia that occupied every spare surface and then some in his study. It took some time before he finally slumped back in his seat, defeated, wondering if he should crack open that bottle of bourbon that Shamal had brought back from his latest trip to God-knows-where to see God-knows-which-mistress. His gaze strayed to the bottle and fell instead on the picture frame just at the corner, one of the only things still standing in his office. One look at the picture - a memento from his high school days, something Fuuta had insisted on taking and given to him just for the record - and Gokudera instantly regretted thinking about the bourbon. He focused on his work and the warmth of Uri curled up just at his feet instead, and did not look up until a maid called him hours later, for breakfast.
“C’mon, Uri.”
He turned the frame and the frozen smiles of him, the boss and that one other person who used to (still) mattered to him face down on his way out. Gokudera Hayato was a man who did not need memories to make it through the way. Their weight did nothing but bring him down.
Chapter One: Why I'm not where you are.
Theme Song: To follow, with download link!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | 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: PG
Characters: Yamamoto (80), Gokudera (59), a cameo from another series that I love, a bit of Lambo and mentions of others
Summary: Six years later, and an ocean apart.
Notes: 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. The title of this chapter is taken from the 31_days theme for November 4, 2005.
Chapter One: Why I’m not where you are.
Six years later, Japan Side.
He found himself remembering Namimori - or more specifically, the rooftop of the school where he had spent years of his childhood in - at the oddest times. Of course, he had long realized that he wasn’t like most people, and thus ‘odd’ needed some qualifications. In that particular case, ‘odd’ meant moments where he wasn’t supposed to be using his head, where he should have been completely immersed in instinct, in the realm of the physical: the split second between a pitcher’s toss and his last big swing, the heartbeat before he had to gun for the next base. He did not normally mind, because those odd recollections usually helped him win the game at hand for his team. Today been no exception.
“…All right, Yuu-chan, up and at em…”
Yamamoto Takeshi slipped his arms underneath his teammate’s armpits and lifted the smaller man up as gently as he could; Tajima Yuuichirou only snorted in response, and his head lolled back and around, prompting Yamamoto to scramble to straighten him up rather than risk having him burp or puke in his face. Their years together in the Hanshin Tigers had taught Yamamoto to never doubt Tajima when it came to drinking whole battalions of well-wishers and teammates under the table, but he also knew that they had celebrated their victory - their last for the season, and the one that had won them the championship for the third year in a row - just a little too well this time around. The fact that Tajima had pulled a lampshade over his head and started on the chinko jokes was proof enough.
His cellular phone started ringing right when Yamamoto was in the middle of navigating through mountains of pizza boxes, beer bottles at a thousand different degrees of empty or full and the huddled or sprawled islands of sleeping teammates. Yamamoto ignored it to the best of his abilities, as he wanted to focus on getting Tajima to the couch first and making sure the little guy would at least be somewhat comfortable before jogging to the fridge for a bottle of water. He made it out of the house and answered his phone, just as the caller made a second attempt at contacting him.
“Oi, what took you so long? You with a girl or something?”
“Ahaha… I was last week, if it counts.”
“How was she?”
“Win the championship next season and I just might tell you.”
Haruna Motoki chuckled on the other end of the line. Yamamoto took in a deep whiff of the night air and decided that it really was a nice night to be up and about. The batter cradled his phone between the crook of his neck and his shoulder as he fiddled with his bottle. He’d never tell his coach this (the man loved his booze and had the propensity to judge people who didn’t love it as much as he did a little too quickly), but what he loved most about their after-parties was when the actual booze stopped flowing and he got to drink something more to his tastes.
“I didn’t catch you on the way out. I wanted to ask about what you said this afternoon.”
“Ah.”
“So it’s true then? You’re leaving?”
“I’ll only miss a month of the season. Maybe a little more, if something comes up.”
“It’s going to be boring without you around.”
“You’ll still have Tajima.”
“It’s not the same if there’s just one of you Tigers to knock down!”
Yamamoto chuckled. If there was one thing that he appreciated about the world of sports, it’s the fact that it was the only world where rivalries bred long-lasting friendships that didn’t require a regular dose of death and destruction to maintain. A dugout the occasional phone call was more than enough.
“So tell me why you’re going before the rumor mill makes me think all sorts of weird stuff about you.”
“A friend of mine’s getting married.”
“Haa? And you’re leaving for almost eight months just for that?”
“Um… he’s a really, really good friend of mine?”
“What are you, his wedding planner?”
“No, but I’m probably going to be his planner’s lackey until the big day arrives.”
“I don’t get you, man.”
Yamamoto laughed again. “I better go,” he said into the receiver, after a small pause. “Want anything from Italy?”
“A David apron!”
“A… what?”
“You’ll find out when you get there. Can’t miss it!”
“Ahaha, all right, whatever you say.”
Yamamoto hung up as he made his way into the house, retracing his steps (carefully) through the carnage in order to retrieve his bag. He took one last look at his teammates before he stepped out, almost certain that he wasn’t going to have that kind of party where he was going. The crowd back in Italy was an entirely different set of people, and he’d have to keep up appearances the moment he arrived.
The apartment had been a gift from the team manager in the second year of his career, a sort of Thank You for Single-handedly Turning the Team Around Gift. Prior to Yamamoto’s arrival (and later, Tajima’s), the Tigers had been on a losing streak against the Giants - the manager was thoroughly convinced that his batter was the main reason why they were doing spectacularly as of late, and was constantly asking Yamamoto whether the apartment was being put to good use (i.e. if he was housing some nice girl there that nobody, not even the gossip columnists, knew about). Yamamoto wasn’t about to tell him that he barely set foot in the place whenever he was in Koushien, and there was no girl there - only loads of things that his manager was sure to find very boring, although he couldn’t say the same for the local authorities. This week had been the exception, and it wasn’t just because of the game. There were lots of things to pack up, lots of things that needed proper disguises in order to go past the borders that he’d be crossing by tomorrow.
Four in the morning, and Yamamoto found himself sitting cross-legged under the light with a can of iced coffee just at his knee, surrounded by boxes neatly flipped and taped and stamped with that a very familiar crest. He was far past the point where the sight of his bed would have been tempting, and somewhere close to that stage where sleeping was probably pointless, given the time that he was planning on leaving town. He knew, though, that the road home was a long one, and he was going to need as many hours as he could get.
It hit him again, sometime after a warm shower and right before he rested his head on his pillow: the feel of a chain-link fence against his back, the smell of Italian cigarettes, the image of sad green eyes. There had been so much between that and where he was now, so many other moments for him and that other to be alone by being together, but that one conversation at the rooftop of Namimori Academy had been the last time they had ever been completely honest with each other. Back then he had still hoped that things would change. Now, six years later and more than an ocean away, Yamamoto fell asleep, knowing full well that they probably wouldn’t.
(The difference, however, between the him back then and the him now, was that maybe this time, he really was all right with it.)
Six years later, Italy Side.
He doesn’t really think much about Japan all that much anymore, or the way things used to be: he stopped doing that when he discovered that remembering the past was counter-productive to living in the now, protecting the now. There were many ghosts there, too many possibilities and maybes to consider. Far and enough that common people had always carried their own fair share of regrets on their shoulders - what more someone like him, someone who was always a step ahead of the rest, who couldn’t help but see life as a set of endless, ever-expanding set of patterns? So, to stop himself from going crazy by considering the could-have-beens versus the should-have-beens, he had simply opted to stop thinking about it altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had pretended that he was a punk with no past and an uncertain future. And, when people asked, the excuse he always had at hand was that Japan was Hibari Kyouya’s territory, and, Family or no, he really couldn’t stand that guy.
Gokudera Hayato squatted beside the nearest body and turned the corpse over, checking to see if the dead guy had a lighter on him. He needed to smoke now that it was all over, and true to his rotten luck, his lighter had gotten lost somewhere between killing people and killing some more people. Given the fact that he had spent most of his evening running all over the compound, he figured that it was useless to try to look for it. That annoyed him, just a little. It had been a damned good lighter. The silver-haired mafioso eventually found what he was looking for and stood up, fumbled around in search of his pack, tried and failed to light up around three times before it worked out; the nicotine jitters predictably made things difficult. A disapproving growl sounded from the other end of the room. Gokudera looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the source.
“…What are you looking at me for?”
Uri only narrowed his eyes, looked at the cigarette perched on Gokudera’s mouth, and growled again. The big cat had curled up in one corner with a dying man pinned beneath one paw; the flame at the tip of his tongue and along his spine flickered, brighter than all of the other sources of the light in the room. Gokudera turned away with a rueful shake of his head.
“Don’t worry, Uri. I doubt cancer can kill me even if it wanted to.”
His box creature was not content with his answer (it was obvious in the way the flaming feline’s eyes narrowed only further and a deeper sound rumbled out from his throat), but this was a long-standing argument with them, and Gokudera always won by ignoring the disapproval and lighting up another.
The first three people who attempted to call Gokudera in the minutes that followed were pointedly ignored - he knew, without looking at his phone, that they couldn’t have been anyone else other than Basil, Shamal and Bianchi. Basil was probably out to nag him about things that he had probably already taken care of; Shamal was likely bored and drunk, looking for a quick and stupid conversation about this-and-that-conquest or so-and-so-woman. As for Bianchi… Gokudera still wondered why his sister even bothered calling to check up on him after every one of his solo operations, given the fact that he tried to avoid speaking to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Gokudera, however, made sure to pick up the fourth call he received. He told himself that this was because this next caller was sure to whine if he didn’t answer.
“Bianchi wants me to tell you that you ought to learn how to answer your phone.”
“And I want you to tell my sister that I only answer relevant calls while I’m on the job.”
“You mean this call is relevant?”
Gokudera only sighed. “Why are you still up, Lambo? Kids like you should be in bed.”
“You’re not the only one who’s got stuff to do tonight!”
Lambo Bovino had come a long way from being the snot-nosed, bovine crybaby that Gokudera had met back in Namimori. While the cow prints, the ridiculous perkiness and the irrational love for exploding things had not really changed, Lambo had, at least, learned to perform more and snivel less during the ten years he had spent as the Vongola Family’s number one sniper and the Tenth’s bodyguard. Because he was the boss’ right hand man, Gokudera had spent most his career working closely with the other Guardians, forging connections that went beyond their individual differences. His connection with Lambo, however, ran a little deeper than usual. There were, after all, times when the Thunder Guardian felt more like family than his own sister did.
Gokudera, of course, would never admit that out loud, and most especially not to Lambo. If he did, he was never going to hear the end of it.
They continued their conversation as Gokudera made his way out of the compound with Uri right at his heels, talking about family matters as the Storm Guardian moved through blood-splattered hallways and blasted corridors. He and Uri were no longer alone with the dead - a small contingent of men from the main house had arrived, moving in to handle the clean-up in Gokudera’s place. He interrupted his conversation with Lambo every now and then to give short and curt instructions, or to scold whoever happened to be doing something or the other wrong as he passed by. Jobs like this were things that the Tenth did not need to do and did not turn his eyes towards unless he didn’t have a choice - Gokudera made sure of that. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to stand for things being less than perfect.
“Y’know, Hayato-nii,” said Lambo sometime later, after Gokudera was settled in the back seat of the car they had prepared for him and well on the way home, “it’s kind of amazing.”
“What is?”
“We’ve been talking for the last thirty minutes, and you didn’t mention the boss once! That’s a new record for you!”
“It’s my job to keep tabs on him.”
“But I’m the one who’s actually watching over him right now, y’know. I’ve got his back too.”
Gokudera did not answer immediately; he leaned back, smoking through yet another cigarette, idly stroking Uri’s head from where the big cat had laid it on his lap. The light from the streetlamps cut into the dark peace of the car at regular intervals, washing everything in odd yellow light for split seconds at a time.
“…How is he, though? The boss, I mean.”
“Pretty okay. The old fogeys had another debate over the Tomaso house, so Basil and I went with him since the others were busy.”
“And the meeting?”
“No clue~ I was on sniper duty up on the roof!”
“I see.” Gokudera made a mental note to ask later, and be prepared to check the files if Tsuna did not feel comfortable with answering him. “Check on him later. I’ll be home soon.”
“You’re going to say that I’m being a nosy brat for this-”
“That’s because you are one.”
“-but you worry about him too much.”
“Later, Lambo.”
And Gokudera hung up, because it was the easier thing to do.
It was tempting to simply dump his stuff somewhere and crawl right into bed the moment he reached his room: given the fact that he had been up since two in the morning and doing operations much like the one he had come from since breakfast (which hadn’t really been breakfast, more like cold eggs, colder toast and practically frozen bacon), he probably deserved it. One look at himself in the mirror, however, stopped him short. Gokudera stared, turned away with a curse to pull his shoes off and shove his jacket off his shoulders. He had liked the shirt he was wearing… now it was ruined beyond repair. The women in the estate weren’t going to try and wash that much blood out, even if he begged them to. There was little that they could do against that many bullet holes either.
Hot water was, in his experience, supposed to help one out when one was past the point of bone-numbing exhaustion, but Gokudera could barely bring himself to relax underneath the jet of the shower head. The Storm Guardian lingered inside the stall for a long time, slumped forward, watching the water drain away just at his feet in a futile attempt to clear his head of the noise. By the time he remembered to step out, he had two hours before sunrise and the mandatory post-mission report still hadn’t been done. He wasn’t on any deadline beyond whatever he set for himself, but that was all that somebody like him needed in order to kick himself into action.
Gokudera was halfway to his desk when he discovered that his cigarettes were out, and the pack had been last in the ream. The half-Italian cursed, spent a few useless moments flailing about in search of a pack or a stick that he might have missed in the mess of papers, file cases and other paraphernalia that occupied every spare surface and then some in his study. It took some time before he finally slumped back in his seat, defeated, wondering if he should crack open that bottle of bourbon that Shamal had brought back from his latest trip to God-knows-where to see God-knows-which-mistress. His gaze strayed to the bottle and fell instead on the picture frame just at the corner, one of the only things still standing in his office. One look at the picture - a memento from his high school days, something Fuuta had insisted on taking and given to him just for the record - and Gokudera instantly regretted thinking about the bourbon. He focused on his work and the warmth of Uri curled up just at his feet instead, and did not look up until a maid called him hours later, for breakfast.
“C’mon, Uri.”
He turned the frame and the frozen smiles of him, the boss and that one other person who used to (still) mattered to him face down on his way out. Gokudera Hayato was a man who did not need memories to make it through the way. Their weight did nothing but bring him down.