82: Romantic getaway on a yacht
Title: Like a James Bond Movie
Author: saxondogs
Prompt: #82: Romantic getaway on a yacht
WC: 2,170
Notes: Well, it's sort of a romantic getaway on a yacht. Kind of. Literally.
Watch out for possibly the worst abuse of Italian possible in the following.
“Fuck!” Gokudera swore, and that was when Yamamoto realized it had all gone to shit.
The situation had started out innocuously enough. Gokudera had been sent on a routine sort of diplomatic trip, acting as the eyes and ears of the Tenth and all, and Yamamoto was along officially as the token associate but he and Tsuna’d exchanged looks prior, and unofficially, he worked just as well as bodyguard (though God forbid Gokudera found out).
The whole business-vacation thing had been proceeding so smoothly too; they’d been greeted at the train station in Naples by an ally of the Vongola, and ushered into a nice car, black and shiny as mafia cars are wont to be, then onto a private high-speed jet onto the island of Capri. Yamamoto had even spent a good day-and-a-half playing curious tourist while Gokudera was trapped in with all the serious business behind heavy mahogany doors.
Negotiations had been going positively; the Vongola and the Tonnarelli were on the way towards reaching an amicable accord of mutual disregard when, some how or the other, relations suddenly went very, very bad. It may or may not have something to do with Don Tonnarelli offering his only daughter in marriage to the Tenth Vongola’s honored consigliere, and his too-horrified-to-be-blunt guest offering an emphatic “No” right back.
What matters is that within minutes, Yamamoto and Gokudera were bolting for the door of the cliff side villa, forget about suitcases, toiletries, favorite shirts whatever. Yamamoto started straight for the parked cars, trying handles, windows anything to pop one open. Gokudera instead strode right into the road, shoved some poor sucker off his motorino and powered on out on the stolen vehicle, pausing only long enough for his partner to leap onto the back before taking off like a shot down the winding mountain road from Anacapri to the bottom of the island.
“Get me Francesco,” Gokudera barked into his Bluetooth. Yamamoto closed his eyes briefly, his hysterical gut-reaction giggle hitched in his throat, and squeezed his hands on the Italian’s thin shoulders as they screamed a line of black smoke and skid marks around a hairpin turn at breakneck speed. Wildly, he noted that the scenery was absolutely stunning by-the-by; the sun peeking out behind white clouds made the blue waters below sparkle like a postcard-perfect moment. And then he was back to hanging on for dear life as Gokudera drove like a mad man down possibly one of the least car-racing appropriate streets ever created.
“Francesco, we’re coming back now. Be ready at the port in half an hour.” Gokudera was terse, and punctuated his words with a twist of speed.
“Gokudera, slow down, would you?” Yamamoto shouted against the wind. Behind them, he heard tires squealing. Tonnarelli’s men, he thought briefly before Gokudera’s startled curse brought his attention back to their front, where a giant bus (okay, in comparison, not that huge but when you’re hurtling down a one-lane mountain road and facing anything bigger than a bicycle, it’s going to look fucking monstrous) was quickly closing the distance.
“Christo-” someone prayed; the bus’s horns blared, Yamamoto’s heart stopped, and Gokudera navigated the scooter with a flick of his wrists, passing the orange bus like a kiss of the wind. His silver hair and Yamamoto’s left pant’s leg brushed against the bus’ sides, and in a stop-action moment, Yamamoto thought he could count the pimples on the face of the stunned passenger on the other side of the window. Yamamoto barely managed to keep from pissing himself. It wasn’t like they hadn’t been in car chases before; that one time on an assignment gone-wrong in Hong Kong, or in Paris, yeah well, in fact Yamamoto considered himself a veteran of car chases by now, enjoyed a bit of the adrenaline rush too, except, except:
1) They had always been in cars not on flimsy, glorified bikes and
2) Gokudera was never allowed to drive
In fact, the Vongola had pretty much banded together to prevent Gokudera from advancing any position higher than shotgun when it came to driving. The combination of the second-in-command with any form of transportation device was to be as Ryohei declared, “EXTREMELY avoided.”
“I think we can slow down now!” Yamamoto shouted as they careened on past the bus, then a taxi, then a furious old woman with her groceries. “Gokudera, ahaha, please slow down I think I am going to be sick.”
“Suck it up, you pansy!” Gokudera whooped back, and in a truly terrifying moment, let slip a wild bark of laughter. Yamamoto gulped, mentally crossed himself and hunkered down, taking a more secure grip around Gokudera’s waist.
Ping! Pop pop poppoppop!
“Shit,” Gokudera swore as the Tonnarelli opened fire from behind. He jostled Yamamoto who clung on like a limpet. “Under my jacket, left side, there’s a round, marble-shaped bit. Toss it at them, will you?”
Christ, Yamamoto thought, feeling his partner up and fumbling through a near arsenal of explosives. They were fucked if one of the bullets nicked the motorino; Gokudera’s added “bits” would take them and the rest of the damn island sky-high. He finally grasped the right one and squeezing his eyes shut, flung it behind, and ducked as a loud BANG sounded and sparks flew up. The cars were distracted, and Gokudera brought them hurtling into the port of Capri, throwing up sprays of water and pebbles as they pulled to a screeching halt in front of a particularly snazzy looking yacht.
“Hm,” Gokudera said, and grabbed Yamamoto before he could register his survival. Ignoring the goggled audience of locals and tourists alike, he dragged the taller man over the railing of the ship.
“Ah, cara mia,” Gianlorenzo crooned. “Lei è bellissima! Veramente!”
“Mi racconti più,” Sofia cooed back, tossing her glossy black curls and fluttering her ridiculously long lashes.
“Sofia! Il mio cuore!” Gianlorenzo shouted.
“Ti piaccio?”
“No, non mi piaci.”
The couple froze, stunned as a silver haired man and his tall, Asian companion loomed over them. They stared in particular at the shiny black gun pointing down their foreheads. The silver-haired man looked bored as he cocked the weapon.
“Mi dispiace, ma ho bisogno di questa nave,” he said in smooth Italian and flicked the gun in the direction they should go, that is, off.
“No-No, che cosa li pensate-” spluttered Gianlorenzo, but was cut off as yawning, the Asian man was suddenly tapping a very long, and very big sword against his shoulder and where the fuck had that come from?!. He locked eyes with the swordsman, and the tall man grinned, sharp and bright. Gianlorenzo thought better of it and with his busty girl, ran for the gangplank.
Hell, we already commandeered a scooter anyways, was Yamamoto’s resigned reasoning as he started the boat up and steered them out into the ocean (he’d flat out shoved Gokudera aside when the Italian man had approached the helm, fingers twitching eagerly).
“They’re coming up behind us,” Yamamoto shouted against the wind.
“What do you think I am, blind?” his partner replied witheringly, and as if in further remonstration, loud, flashy explosions boomed cheerfully, obscuring the Tonnarelli boats with smoke. With a mental sigh of relief, Yamamoto noted that their pursuers were slowing and growing smaller with each second. He turned back to navigating the yacht, steering straight for the port of Naples.
“We should be there in twenty minutes,” he muttered out loud, reaching over the helm to check the readings on the dashboard. “What exactly are we going to tell Tsun- haha, what are you doing?”
Because, Gokudera was suddenly at his back, and curiously, Yamamoto turned to catch Gokudera’s eye, except the other man then snagged his tie and jerked him forward into a bruising, demanding kiss.
“Hey- hahaha, what- Gokudera, I’m trying to drive this boat to safety,” Yamamoto protested, but Gokudera snorted and pushed him up against the helm, long, pale fingers splayed possessively along Yamamoto’s long torso.
“So what,” Gokudera said, deadpan and kissed him again, open-mouthed with tongue and teeth. It was ridiculous, and exhilarating, and hilarious, and Yamamoto laughed again, but ended with a sharp intake of breath as Gokudera’s mouth moved downwards eagerly, licking down his chin, kissing the sharp jut of collar-bone, nipping sharply at a nipple even as his hands were finding the catch of Yamamoto’s belt.
Scrabbling behind him, Yamamoto fought to keep the wheel steady as Gokudera dropped to his knees, pulling open Yamamoto’s trousers, and eyed the traitorous bulge tenting silk boxers with smug satisfaction.
“Hm,” Gokudera hummed, and kissed the cloth-covered bulge sloppily. Yamamoto’s forearms clenched in an effort to keep his self standing upright; Gokudera was not one for public displays of affection, Italian though he was. If this was what happened whenever he was allowed to drive…!
Wet heat and soft pressure engulfed him as Gokudera took to his task in earnest, his tongue trailing like a magnet along the curve and edge of the silk-covered flesh. Above, Yamamoto’s hands twitched on the helm, itching to bury themselves in the silver-gray hair, an indulgence he’d rarely have an opportunity for. Chills and streaks of white-hot bliss raced up his spine as Gokudera teased the head through the damp silk, then finally, finally pulled the elastic band down impatiently to eagerly take in Yamamoto’s naked cock.
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto managed, finally reaching a trembling hand to cup the side of Gokudera’s head. “Um-”
Bright verdant eyes glared sharply at him, and to Yamamoto’s immense displeasure, the sinfully desirable mouth left off to snarl at him, “For once in your life, you dumb jock, would it kill you to shut up?”
Gokudera was right; there was a time and place to protest obscene and lewd acts in plain sight of tourists passing by in another boat. Now was obviously neither.
Yamamoto slid almost embarrassingly boneless to the deck, limbless and mind-blown in a post-orgasmic haze. Sitting back on his heels, Gokudera smirked smugly at him, and wiped his mouth, then hands with a pristine white handkerchief.
“That was,” Yamamoto attempted, stopped, and realigned the syllables in his mouth again. “That was really really good.”
The triumphant glint in Gokudera’s eyes was shadowed by the overhead passing of a helicopter, whose sides were emblazoned with the Tonnarelli crest.
The post-sex daze disappearing in a flash, Yamamoto and Gokudera scrambled to their feet, frantically tucking in their hopelessly rumpled shirts and looking despairingly on as the helicopter whirled above their heads and outraced them to the pier. As they drew closer towards the dock, they could see Mafiosi emerging from the crowd of pedestrians in wait for them. Gokudera jerked towards the helm, trying to navigate the boat back towards open water, but behind were another two Tonnarelli boats, flanking them closely.
“Fuck!” Gokudera swore, and that was when Yamamoto realized it had all gone to shit.
Within moments of spotting the don and his minions, Gokudera’s fingers were already clenching no less than a dozen explosives, and Yamamoto was gripping the hilt of his katana at the ready. The Tonnarelli faced them in a half circle, stone-silent, blank, and oddly enough, red in the face. When it was obvious that the murderous intent of the Tonnarelli had somewhat receded, the two Vongola subordinates exchanged brief, puzzled looks.
Cautiously, Gokudera straightened, looking warily at the don as he stepped forward and coughed, rather awkwardly.
“Ah, Vongola,” began the old man, “I ah. Did not mean to offend you earlier with my… suggestion,” he said delicately. On board the yacht still, Gokudera looked slightly bewildered.
“I didn’t mean to offend your daughter?” he offered back, flicking a glance at Yamamoto.
“Yes, well, I would not have proposed it, had I known…your…preferences,” Don Tonnarelli finished. They stared at each other long and silently.
Suddenly, Gokudera’s face flamed up red and hot as he realized what exactly the don was implying. Yamamoto bit back a bubble of laughter, wondering what exactly that Tonnarelli helicopter had seen as it’d flown over them. Woops.
“I’m of the mind,” Gokudera said finally, struggling to maintain a cool composure, “that we simply disregard the last hour or so.”
If it was any comfort the don and his men looked just as miserably embarrassed and uncomfortable with the situation.
“Certo, Signor Gokudera.”
“Good,” Gokudera hastily agreed, discretely tucking away the explosives and inclining his head a little stiffly. The don nodded and looked a little pained as he tried again.
“Although, my youngest son Sergio-”
“No,” barked Yamamoto, and when all eyes swiveled to him in surprise, he smiled, laughed gaily, and slung an arm over Gokudera’s stiff shoulders. “Mi dispiace, ma, questa uomo non è per l’affare.”
The Don Tonnarelli looked even more mortified and subdued and kind of relieved. Next to him, Gokudera was glaring enraged daggers at him, but Yamamoto just chuckled and dropped his head down so his lips brushed Gokudera’s ear.
“You can drive home.”
The answering gleam of wild anticipation in those jade-sharp eyes was all the answer he needed.
___
Notes! Mostly translations...
I realize looking back that I used Italian rather inconsistently throughout. Um. I'm sorry. I will work harder on learning the damn language in the future and translate the rest!
Consigliere - second-hand man, most trusted advisor, referring to Gokudera in this case.
motorino - scooter! I lol-ed when writing this scene because I was thinking how dorky it was to have a car chase on a motor scooter. Heh.
And here is where I embarrass myself with my severely retarded Italian. I wince with lameness and burn with shame. You can too.
“Ah, cara mia, Lei e bellissima!" - Oh my dear! You(formal) are very beautiful!
“Mi racconti più,” - I have NO CLUE if this is right or not. But I'mshe's trying to say something like 'speak to me more!'
“Sofia! Il mio cuore!” - Sofia! My heart!
“Ti piaccio?” - again, I fail, trying to say 'You like me?'
“No, non mi piaci.” - No, I don't like.
"Mi dispiace, ma ho bisogno di questa nave,” - I'm sorry, but I need this boat.
"che cosa li pensate-” - I gave up on my 101 book and turned to babelfish! 'what are you thinking'
certo - certainly, of course
Mi dispiace, ma, questa uomo non è per l’affare. - I'm sorry, but this man is not up for bargain
God, I'm sorry I'm so crap at Italian; I've only been in Italy for a semester and I'm leaving at the end of this week. Please, please feel free to correct me!
crits, comments welcome!
Author: saxondogs
Prompt: #82: Romantic getaway on a yacht
WC: 2,170
Notes: Well, it's sort of a romantic getaway on a yacht. Kind of. Literally.
Watch out for possibly the worst abuse of Italian possible in the following.
“Fuck!” Gokudera swore, and that was when Yamamoto realized it had all gone to shit.
The situation had started out innocuously enough. Gokudera had been sent on a routine sort of diplomatic trip, acting as the eyes and ears of the Tenth and all, and Yamamoto was along officially as the token associate but he and Tsuna’d exchanged looks prior, and unofficially, he worked just as well as bodyguard (though God forbid Gokudera found out).
The whole business-vacation thing had been proceeding so smoothly too; they’d been greeted at the train station in Naples by an ally of the Vongola, and ushered into a nice car, black and shiny as mafia cars are wont to be, then onto a private high-speed jet onto the island of Capri. Yamamoto had even spent a good day-and-a-half playing curious tourist while Gokudera was trapped in with all the serious business behind heavy mahogany doors.
Negotiations had been going positively; the Vongola and the Tonnarelli were on the way towards reaching an amicable accord of mutual disregard when, some how or the other, relations suddenly went very, very bad. It may or may not have something to do with Don Tonnarelli offering his only daughter in marriage to the Tenth Vongola’s honored consigliere, and his too-horrified-to-be-blunt guest offering an emphatic “No” right back.
What matters is that within minutes, Yamamoto and Gokudera were bolting for the door of the cliff side villa, forget about suitcases, toiletries, favorite shirts whatever. Yamamoto started straight for the parked cars, trying handles, windows anything to pop one open. Gokudera instead strode right into the road, shoved some poor sucker off his motorino and powered on out on the stolen vehicle, pausing only long enough for his partner to leap onto the back before taking off like a shot down the winding mountain road from Anacapri to the bottom of the island.
“Get me Francesco,” Gokudera barked into his Bluetooth. Yamamoto closed his eyes briefly, his hysterical gut-reaction giggle hitched in his throat, and squeezed his hands on the Italian’s thin shoulders as they screamed a line of black smoke and skid marks around a hairpin turn at breakneck speed. Wildly, he noted that the scenery was absolutely stunning by-the-by; the sun peeking out behind white clouds made the blue waters below sparkle like a postcard-perfect moment. And then he was back to hanging on for dear life as Gokudera drove like a mad man down possibly one of the least car-racing appropriate streets ever created.
“Francesco, we’re coming back now. Be ready at the port in half an hour.” Gokudera was terse, and punctuated his words with a twist of speed.
“Gokudera, slow down, would you?” Yamamoto shouted against the wind. Behind them, he heard tires squealing. Tonnarelli’s men, he thought briefly before Gokudera’s startled curse brought his attention back to their front, where a giant bus (okay, in comparison, not that huge but when you’re hurtling down a one-lane mountain road and facing anything bigger than a bicycle, it’s going to look fucking monstrous) was quickly closing the distance.
“Christo-” someone prayed; the bus’s horns blared, Yamamoto’s heart stopped, and Gokudera navigated the scooter with a flick of his wrists, passing the orange bus like a kiss of the wind. His silver hair and Yamamoto’s left pant’s leg brushed against the bus’ sides, and in a stop-action moment, Yamamoto thought he could count the pimples on the face of the stunned passenger on the other side of the window. Yamamoto barely managed to keep from pissing himself. It wasn’t like they hadn’t been in car chases before; that one time on an assignment gone-wrong in Hong Kong, or in Paris, yeah well, in fact Yamamoto considered himself a veteran of car chases by now, enjoyed a bit of the adrenaline rush too, except, except:
1) They had always been in cars not on flimsy, glorified bikes and
2) Gokudera was never allowed to drive
In fact, the Vongola had pretty much banded together to prevent Gokudera from advancing any position higher than shotgun when it came to driving. The combination of the second-in-command with any form of transportation device was to be as Ryohei declared, “EXTREMELY avoided.”
“I think we can slow down now!” Yamamoto shouted as they careened on past the bus, then a taxi, then a furious old woman with her groceries. “Gokudera, ahaha, please slow down I think I am going to be sick.”
“Suck it up, you pansy!” Gokudera whooped back, and in a truly terrifying moment, let slip a wild bark of laughter. Yamamoto gulped, mentally crossed himself and hunkered down, taking a more secure grip around Gokudera’s waist.
Ping! Pop pop poppoppop!
“Shit,” Gokudera swore as the Tonnarelli opened fire from behind. He jostled Yamamoto who clung on like a limpet. “Under my jacket, left side, there’s a round, marble-shaped bit. Toss it at them, will you?”
Christ, Yamamoto thought, feeling his partner up and fumbling through a near arsenal of explosives. They were fucked if one of the bullets nicked the motorino; Gokudera’s added “bits” would take them and the rest of the damn island sky-high. He finally grasped the right one and squeezing his eyes shut, flung it behind, and ducked as a loud BANG sounded and sparks flew up. The cars were distracted, and Gokudera brought them hurtling into the port of Capri, throwing up sprays of water and pebbles as they pulled to a screeching halt in front of a particularly snazzy looking yacht.
“Hm,” Gokudera said, and grabbed Yamamoto before he could register his survival. Ignoring the goggled audience of locals and tourists alike, he dragged the taller man over the railing of the ship.
“Ah, cara mia,” Gianlorenzo crooned. “Lei è bellissima! Veramente!”
“Mi racconti più,” Sofia cooed back, tossing her glossy black curls and fluttering her ridiculously long lashes.
“Sofia! Il mio cuore!” Gianlorenzo shouted.
“Ti piaccio?”
“No, non mi piaci.”
The couple froze, stunned as a silver haired man and his tall, Asian companion loomed over them. They stared in particular at the shiny black gun pointing down their foreheads. The silver-haired man looked bored as he cocked the weapon.
“Mi dispiace, ma ho bisogno di questa nave,” he said in smooth Italian and flicked the gun in the direction they should go, that is, off.
“No-No, che cosa li pensate-” spluttered Gianlorenzo, but was cut off as yawning, the Asian man was suddenly tapping a very long, and very big sword against his shoulder and where the fuck had that come from?!. He locked eyes with the swordsman, and the tall man grinned, sharp and bright. Gianlorenzo thought better of it and with his busty girl, ran for the gangplank.
Hell, we already commandeered a scooter anyways, was Yamamoto’s resigned reasoning as he started the boat up and steered them out into the ocean (he’d flat out shoved Gokudera aside when the Italian man had approached the helm, fingers twitching eagerly).
“They’re coming up behind us,” Yamamoto shouted against the wind.
“What do you think I am, blind?” his partner replied witheringly, and as if in further remonstration, loud, flashy explosions boomed cheerfully, obscuring the Tonnarelli boats with smoke. With a mental sigh of relief, Yamamoto noted that their pursuers were slowing and growing smaller with each second. He turned back to navigating the yacht, steering straight for the port of Naples.
“We should be there in twenty minutes,” he muttered out loud, reaching over the helm to check the readings on the dashboard. “What exactly are we going to tell Tsun- haha, what are you doing?”
Because, Gokudera was suddenly at his back, and curiously, Yamamoto turned to catch Gokudera’s eye, except the other man then snagged his tie and jerked him forward into a bruising, demanding kiss.
“Hey- hahaha, what- Gokudera, I’m trying to drive this boat to safety,” Yamamoto protested, but Gokudera snorted and pushed him up against the helm, long, pale fingers splayed possessively along Yamamoto’s long torso.
“So what,” Gokudera said, deadpan and kissed him again, open-mouthed with tongue and teeth. It was ridiculous, and exhilarating, and hilarious, and Yamamoto laughed again, but ended with a sharp intake of breath as Gokudera’s mouth moved downwards eagerly, licking down his chin, kissing the sharp jut of collar-bone, nipping sharply at a nipple even as his hands were finding the catch of Yamamoto’s belt.
Scrabbling behind him, Yamamoto fought to keep the wheel steady as Gokudera dropped to his knees, pulling open Yamamoto’s trousers, and eyed the traitorous bulge tenting silk boxers with smug satisfaction.
“Hm,” Gokudera hummed, and kissed the cloth-covered bulge sloppily. Yamamoto’s forearms clenched in an effort to keep his self standing upright; Gokudera was not one for public displays of affection, Italian though he was. If this was what happened whenever he was allowed to drive…!
Wet heat and soft pressure engulfed him as Gokudera took to his task in earnest, his tongue trailing like a magnet along the curve and edge of the silk-covered flesh. Above, Yamamoto’s hands twitched on the helm, itching to bury themselves in the silver-gray hair, an indulgence he’d rarely have an opportunity for. Chills and streaks of white-hot bliss raced up his spine as Gokudera teased the head through the damp silk, then finally, finally pulled the elastic band down impatiently to eagerly take in Yamamoto’s naked cock.
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto managed, finally reaching a trembling hand to cup the side of Gokudera’s head. “Um-”
Bright verdant eyes glared sharply at him, and to Yamamoto’s immense displeasure, the sinfully desirable mouth left off to snarl at him, “For once in your life, you dumb jock, would it kill you to shut up?”
Gokudera was right; there was a time and place to protest obscene and lewd acts in plain sight of tourists passing by in another boat. Now was obviously neither.
Yamamoto slid almost embarrassingly boneless to the deck, limbless and mind-blown in a post-orgasmic haze. Sitting back on his heels, Gokudera smirked smugly at him, and wiped his mouth, then hands with a pristine white handkerchief.
“That was,” Yamamoto attempted, stopped, and realigned the syllables in his mouth again. “That was really really good.”
The triumphant glint in Gokudera’s eyes was shadowed by the overhead passing of a helicopter, whose sides were emblazoned with the Tonnarelli crest.
The post-sex daze disappearing in a flash, Yamamoto and Gokudera scrambled to their feet, frantically tucking in their hopelessly rumpled shirts and looking despairingly on as the helicopter whirled above their heads and outraced them to the pier. As they drew closer towards the dock, they could see Mafiosi emerging from the crowd of pedestrians in wait for them. Gokudera jerked towards the helm, trying to navigate the boat back towards open water, but behind were another two Tonnarelli boats, flanking them closely.
“Fuck!” Gokudera swore, and that was when Yamamoto realized it had all gone to shit.
Within moments of spotting the don and his minions, Gokudera’s fingers were already clenching no less than a dozen explosives, and Yamamoto was gripping the hilt of his katana at the ready. The Tonnarelli faced them in a half circle, stone-silent, blank, and oddly enough, red in the face. When it was obvious that the murderous intent of the Tonnarelli had somewhat receded, the two Vongola subordinates exchanged brief, puzzled looks.
Cautiously, Gokudera straightened, looking warily at the don as he stepped forward and coughed, rather awkwardly.
“Ah, Vongola,” began the old man, “I ah. Did not mean to offend you earlier with my… suggestion,” he said delicately. On board the yacht still, Gokudera looked slightly bewildered.
“I didn’t mean to offend your daughter?” he offered back, flicking a glance at Yamamoto.
“Yes, well, I would not have proposed it, had I known…your…preferences,” Don Tonnarelli finished. They stared at each other long and silently.
Suddenly, Gokudera’s face flamed up red and hot as he realized what exactly the don was implying. Yamamoto bit back a bubble of laughter, wondering what exactly that Tonnarelli helicopter had seen as it’d flown over them. Woops.
“I’m of the mind,” Gokudera said finally, struggling to maintain a cool composure, “that we simply disregard the last hour or so.”
If it was any comfort the don and his men looked just as miserably embarrassed and uncomfortable with the situation.
“Certo, Signor Gokudera.”
“Good,” Gokudera hastily agreed, discretely tucking away the explosives and inclining his head a little stiffly. The don nodded and looked a little pained as he tried again.
“Although, my youngest son Sergio-”
“No,” barked Yamamoto, and when all eyes swiveled to him in surprise, he smiled, laughed gaily, and slung an arm over Gokudera’s stiff shoulders. “Mi dispiace, ma, questa uomo non è per l’affare.”
The Don Tonnarelli looked even more mortified and subdued and kind of relieved. Next to him, Gokudera was glaring enraged daggers at him, but Yamamoto just chuckled and dropped his head down so his lips brushed Gokudera’s ear.
“You can drive home.”
The answering gleam of wild anticipation in those jade-sharp eyes was all the answer he needed.
___
Notes! Mostly translations...
I realize looking back that I used Italian rather inconsistently throughout. Um. I'm sorry. I will work harder on learning the damn language in the future and translate the rest!
Consigliere - second-hand man, most trusted advisor, referring to Gokudera in this case.
motorino - scooter! I lol-ed when writing this scene because I was thinking how dorky it was to have a car chase on a motor scooter. Heh.
And here is where I embarrass myself with my severely retarded Italian. I wince with lameness and burn with shame. You can too.
“Ah, cara mia, Lei e bellissima!" - Oh my dear! You(formal) are very beautiful!
“Mi racconti più,” - I have NO CLUE if this is right or not. But I'mshe's trying to say something like 'speak to me more!'
“Sofia! Il mio cuore!” - Sofia! My heart!
“Ti piaccio?” - again, I fail, trying to say 'You like me?'
“No, non mi piaci.” - No, I don't like.
"Mi dispiace, ma ho bisogno di questa nave,” - I'm sorry, but I need this boat.
"che cosa li pensate-” - I gave up on my 101 book and turned to babelfish! 'what are you thinking'
certo - certainly, of course
Mi dispiace, ma, questa uomo non è per l’affare. - I'm sorry, but this man is not up for bargain
God, I'm sorry I'm so crap at Italian; I've only been in Italy for a semester and I'm leaving at the end of this week. Please, please feel free to correct me!
crits, comments welcome!