Falling
Title: Falling
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: TYL!8059
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,290
Worksafe: Yes
Warnings: Bit of swearing and implied adult acts.
Author's Note: A really late Valentine's fic D= 'Why did this take you so long?' you ask? Tis simple: What was going to be a 300-word drabble made like rabbits and multiplied to that horrendous word count you see above. It kills me a bit inside. It was also a little tough to write at parts and the ending did not want to be written. I could have probably gone on and on.... *sob* And a little dictionary reference, since Italian is scattered throughout this (please tell me if I got something wrong!):
Nonna/Nonno: Grandma/Grandpa
Sedutorre: Seductor/Seductress
Cara Mia: My Darling
Ti penso sempre: I think of you always
Comme sei bella: You are beautiful/a beauty
Ti Amo: I love you (A more intimate 'I love you')
--~~*~~--
“If you can blow me over with something romantic, then yes. I’ll consider telling the Famiglia.”
Gokudera knew he should never have spoken those words, but he honestly didn’t think he’d have to eat them.
It was supposed to be a ‘romantic trip’, as foretold by the Now-an-Adult-Should-Have-Grown-Out-of-it Baseball Nut, since Gokudera had used ‘romantic’ in his requirements; see Section A. And, well….
Gokudera had to admit, it had been rather romantic. The foolishly hopeless dork Yamamoto had been in middle school had grown into a foolishly hopeless dork with sometimes-suave-and-dashing moments that almost made Gokudera forget about the dork that Yamamoto truly was. In fact, Yamamoto’s ‘suave and dashing’ moments were almost suave and dashing enough to make him forget to untangle his thought process so as to not think in run-on sentences about said suave and dashing moments. Because if his mind was too caught up about said suave and dashing moments, his tongue may have slipped and let something regarding the suave and dashing moments escape. Luckily for him (‘him’ being Gokudera), Yamamoto was still too much of a foolishly hopeless dork to allow Gokudera to over-think his (‘his’ being Yamamoto’s), suave and dashing moments.
However, Gokudera was unable to determine if he should be scarred or amused at that thought: Thinking of the Baseball Nut as ‘suave and dashing’ put images of those romance novel covers in his head, except with Yamamoto being the suave, strong, dashing, and handsome hero of the story with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset. In a sense it was scarring, because Yamamoto was the last person he’d ever expect-or even want-to see on his sister’s, or Miura’s, or even Sasagawa’s book covers. But it was highly amusing all the same: He’d seen Yamamoto naked before, and Yamamoto was not the big muscle-y man with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset. Nay. Yamamoto, while having muscle, was more lean, if anything. Gokudera supposed this came with being a swordsman, but he just couldn’t picture him truly as the big muscle-y man with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset.
Instead he was more like the foolishly hopeless dork obsessed with baseball trying to get Gokudera to envision him otherwise. However, right now Gokudera was envisioning him more like a romantic klutz which brought him back to his original train of thought:
Their ‘Romantic Trip’.
That day, early in the morning, Yamamoto had hurriedly woken Gokudera and pushed him along in getting ready for something Gokudera hadn’t even known was happening. If he hadn’t known better, he’d say that Vongola was under attack or something with how Yamamoto had been rushing him. Instead, after Yamamoto had shoved their luggage into his car and sped towards the airport, Gokudera finally caught hold of the date, and the destination of the gate they’d entered. He was not happy to see that grin on Yamamoto’s face when they took their first-class seats in the plane, and frowned, and was determined to be miserable the entire flight in an attempt to bring Yamamoto’s high hopes down. Alas, Yamamoto’s spirits were about as high as the plane was off the ground over Korea and did not fall even as the plane descended and landed in Rome hours later. Gokudera’s spirits, however, were about as low as the opposite side of the world, and did not rise. At all.
Yamamoto’s points in Gokudera’s notebook (titled as ‘Baseball Idiot’s Baseball Points’) were already in the negatives by noon, Japan time. (Although he reasoned later to turn it back to a flat ‘0’ when Yamamoto complained that there were ‘no such things as points in baseball, it’s just home runs’.)
Of course, the first thing they did after getting off the plane was rent a car and go off to a hotel to drop off their things since Yamamoto had a ‘romantic trip’ planned out. Yamamoto was grinning and laughing, and Gokudera was determinedly not-amused and grumbling. At first they traveled around Rome, just seeing sights that Gokudera hadn’t the heart to tell Yamamoto he’d already seen (as he’d lived in Italy for the first fourteen years of his life), and truth be told Yamamoto was just too enthusiastic and excited and sure, yeah, he’d been to Italy as well but it was never for long and he’d only been to the Cavallone estate and to Vongola HQ. “Oh, look at that!”, “Hey, Gokudera, isn’t it awesome?”, “How do they get it to stay like that?”, and “Wouldn’t it be cool to fight the Varia in the Coliseum like the Gladiators?” were questions often shot at Gokudera and Gokudera was unable to decide if he just wanted to laugh in amusement with Yamamoto and relax, or to grit his teeth and punch the freak in the arm for being so excitable.
The day was only a little more than halfway through, probably 3 PM Italy time, but with the time change and being awoken in such a rush, Gokudera was exhausted and demanded sleep ‘right now, damn it before I make you explode from the inside-no, not that way, stop grinning like that.’ So they traveled back to the hotel to their lavish suite (as provided as a guarantee by Vongola) and Gokudera promptly fell upon the giant bed and fell asleep not a moment later after threatening Yamamoto to not wake him up for at least an hour.
So Yamamoto had waited. And waited. And waited. And how many minutes had passed by? Five? So he continued waiting, deciding that even though he too felt a little drowsy, he would stay up, because if he fell asleep then the rest of the evening was ruined. Yamamoto dilly-dallied about the room, checking out the closet (a very large closet, probably as large as his childhood room back at his dad’s sushi restaurant), and the bathroom (pure marble and porcelain with a very soft, warm, and fuzzy rug for stepping out of the shower) was extremely elaborate and he decided that the bathroom was the entire reason a single night in this hotel cost so much (despite the fact that they were Vongola, and as Mafia probably owned all the hotel chains in the whole of Italy). Not that he’d had to pay, of course.
Yamamoto hadn’t noticed when Gokudera woke up not too much later, but thankfully close enough to an hour to not give a real-life-human demonstration of exploding dynamite. Gokudera had been quiet, and Yamamoto had felt a slight shock as Gokudera’s arms had wrapped around him from behind, slowly working on unbuttoning his shirt as his mouth seemed determined on leaving an impressive hicky right there for the world to see. Normally Yamamoto wouldn’t mind, but this time was different.
“Gokudera,” he began, pulling away and turning to face a slightly disgruntled explosives expert. “Not right now. Later.”
“But I want to now. Not later.”
“Later. If we get started now who knows when we’ll finish.”
Yamamoto ginned at Gokudera, whose hair resembled that of a dirty over-used mop, and covered his eyes, save for the flash of a tint of green between his bangs. His shirt was a little messy, though not wrinkled (that fact astounded the baseball player), and his skin looked as though it was shining a little bit as though in anticipation for that which he was denied.
Yet, for as much as that image of Gokudera turned Yamamoto on, and as much as that image of Gokudera made him want to rip Gokudera’s clothing off and simply ravish the wits out of the poor young man, Yamamoto’s resolve was firm, and he would not be swayed from his original plans.
At all.
So by the time they finished up and were cleaned up and dressed up back in their suits (clean ones, of course) it was almost 5:00 PM, and Yamamoto’s reservations were for 5:30. So again he rushed Gokudera, much to Gokudera’s chagrin, and sped through the Italian streets to a very small and hidden pizzeria. So small and hidden, in fact, that Gokudera thought it was just a closed up shop that the owners had forgotten to take the ‘Open’ sign down.
But Gokudera had indeed been surprised: While the pizzeria was indeed small, it was homey, and comfortable. There weren’t many tables, and they were the only ones there, besides the old nonna and nonno that owned the place but they hung out in the back making pizzas and pastas and whatever else it was that old nonnas and nonnos made.
It had started as a simple cheese pizza. Then they decided that an Italian dinner like this wasn’t complete without a good antipasto salad, or bread, or at least half a glass of wine. After a few bites of the pizza they discovered that cheese on its own was kinda plain, so they asked for a small grilled chicken (Gokudera) and some raw tuna (Yamamoto) to decorate it with. The old man and woman looked at them oddly what with their sudden request, but they were more than happy to provide them with what they needed.
Gokudera had nearly burned the roof of his mouth with how hot the cheese had been, and cursed Yamamoto when he’d begun laughing, but Gokudera fought back a grin himself, and instead of retracting points-er, ‘home runs’-from Yamamoto’s score, he added to them with a silent, smiled, and whispered ‘fuck you’ into his wine.
But then it came time to pay the bill. Gokudera made to grab the slip of paper, but Yamamoto was too swift and snatched it away, reading (or at least attempting to read) through it.
“Oh, they knocked half of it off!” Yamamoto had happily exclaimed.
“Let me see it, Baseball Nut,” Gokudera said, trying to grab it back. “You’re probably reading it wrong.”
“Numbers are universal.”
“And that’s supposed to change the fact you’re still an idiot? Give it to me.”
“No! Besides, it’s my treat-I’m the one trying to woo you.”
And so all had been settled for just a few moments, until Yamamoto began looking for his wallet. This task, Gokudera decided, was taking too long at the third minute in Yamamoto’s search.
“…I can’t believe you lost your fucking wallet. Dumbass.”
Yamamoto grinned and tried to attempt a laugh. “I think I left it back in my other pants….”
Again, a part of Gokudera was giving Yamamoto points, simply because it was so Yamamoto to leave his wallet where he was not. Yet, the fact remained that Yamamoto was supposed to be ‘the one trying to woo him’.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, surprising both himself and Yamamoto. “I’ll get it. You just owe me extra,” he added quietly, pulling his own wallet out, and asking the final price of their bill.
Not long after paying off Nonna and Nonno Yamamoto hurriedly led Gokudera out near a park to walk, relax, and stare up at the stars. Unfortunately there was too much light pollution to really make out any of the constellations, and though they were Mafia, the high school freaks with the weird hair-dos and funky techno music were coming out and scared (which of course was just a front since they were mafioso) the two out of the park. Not that they ran or anything. They were much too dignified for that.
So they instead walked along the riverside for a bit on their way back to the hotel, mostly in silence save for Yamamoto mentioning something about the health hazards of smoking when Gokudera popped one in his mouth. But Gokudera did not heed any of the swordsman’s warnings, and continued to hit his cigarette.
“So,” Yamamoto had begun several minutes later. Gokudera spared a glance in his direction, catching the way the moon reflected off of the clear, dark water. “What kinds of words would you like to hear me whisper into your ear?” Yamamoto leaned down to Gokudera’s ear, and whispered gently, “Seduttore.”
Something that Gokudera related akin to a ‘ping’ shocked itself up Gokudera’s spine, and charged through his body all the way to the very end of his fingertips. “When did you learn that…?” His near-finished cigarette hung fragile between his lips.
Yamamoto just grinned, pressing his lips to Gokudera’s temple. “The internet’s really great, isn’t it? Haha!”
“That’s romantic!” Gokudera yelled sarcastically, turning sharply to face Yamamoto. “You could at least pick stuff up from me, or at least go through an Italian-Japanese dictionary…!” His hands flailed hopelessly as he began walking forward, muttering, “The internet…how absolutely romantic. The internet!” He grabbed the butt of his cigarette, threw it down, and smashed it between his oxfords and the cobbled pavement.
“Aw, Gokudera! Come on…!” Yamamoto continued. Gokudera, however, refused to stop and continued to walk ahead, mumbling until Yamamoto caught up.
“Cara mia…!” he said beggingly. This made Gokudera stop, but he tried his damnedest to ignore the little butterflies in his stomach. Yamamoto kept talking, this time in Japanese, but with Italian thrown in at the oddest of times. Phrases like, “Ti penso sempre,” and “Comme sei bella.”
Gokudera grinned, his gaze narrowed in order to hide how...amused he was, though that wasn’t the right word. “Shut up, you idiot. What do you think you’re doing, turning me into a woman, huh?”
Yamamoto’s gaze widened, and just the expression and surprise on his face was enough to make Gokudera’s expression soften and give him more points. “Never mind,” he said with a rare grin, and continued walking with a considerably quieter Yamamoto at his side. The silence was nice, allowing the two to listen to the way the wind played in the trees and the way the water danced in its current, but Gokudera had become accustomed to Yamamoto’s light and fun chatter and had begun to miss it.
“Did you learn anything else in Italian that I can make fun of your accent for?” he asked teasingly.
Yamamoto smiled sharply, shrugging his shoulders in a playful manner. “Just one more.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Gokudera brushed his hair back to better glance at his surroundings up ahead to make sure they were actually on the right way to the hotel.
“Ti amo.”
But, Gokudera had been looking too far ahead so wasn’t able to see the dislodged stone his foot hit, dragged, and tripped upon-sending him to the ground with all the grace and beauty of a dragonfly about to hit a windshield.
…Just without all the blood, guts, and smushing.
And so Gokudera landed on his side after a mid-air twist and relaxed to his back just as Yamamoto-who’d been rather close in proximity at the time of tripping-landed on top of him.
The silver haired man spent several moments trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him, whereas the black haired man spent several moments coughing. When he’d recovered just after Gokudera, he mumbled something about swallowing a bug to which the bomber said “You are a bug, now get off of me you overgrown worm.”
Yamamoto was unmoving, instead just staring at Gokudera, a grin slowly spreading across his face and sending a slightly questionable chill down Gokudera’s spine-though it could have just been the chilled stone beneath him. It was February, after all. “I don’t want to. You’re comfortable.”
…What? Gokudera was a lot of things, but ‘comfortable’ was definitely not one of them. “You idiot. I am not comfortable.”
“Aw, yes you are,” Yamamoto smiled. “You’re soft and warm.”
“…It’s cold outside, I’m not soft, and my hands are callused. I’m not comfortable.”
“Not as callused as mine, I bet.”
The conversation continued about their callused hands, and debated over Gokudera’s comfortableness. To outsiders this seemed rather odd: Two fully grown men, one on top of the other, lying on the path in the middle of February comparing injuries, and discussing the smaller’s comfort. But to the two fully grown men, one on top of the other, lying on the path in the middle of February comparing injuries, and discussing the smaller’s comfort, this was perfectly normal. To an extent.
Finally they gave up on trying to defend their own side, just going into silence as more and more people began to leave and go home (not that there were many to begin with). Neither really moved, but Yamamoto crossed his arms across Gokudera’s chest, grinning his ever-present grin, and Gokudera was unable to not grin back.
“So-how far in the negatives am I in home runs there, Umpire?”
“You’re not in the negatives.”
Yamamoto’s eyebrows shot up a bit higher in surprise. “Really? I’m in the positives?!”
“Yes, you bothersome bastard.”
Yamamoto’s grin widened, making Gokudera wonder if maybe he’d already shared too much information. Yet, part of him was just really happy and didn’t mind the fact that his entire backside was very cold and almost numb, especially when Yamamoto reached forward and pressed his lips softly to Gokudera’s.
And this brought it round to the fulfillment of Yamamoto’s supposed ‘romantic trip’.
“I just didn’t know you were going to take it so literally,” Gokudera said. “I had assumed you’d just meant a date in Rome, but you used your brain, didn’t you?”
Yamamoto’s soft laughter rang out around them as he rolled himself off of Gokudera to stand and pat the dust off of himself. “Well, you added the actual tripping, but I didn’t know it was romantic.”
Gokudera flexed his fingers, feeling the bitter cold of the rings against his skin, and if he didn’t know better he’d say his entire backside was wet simply for how cold he was. “No,” he insisted from the ground. “It was your fault. If you hadn’t used such…stimulating words then I wouldn’t have tripped. It’s your fault.”
“You hinted that it was romantic, right?”
“I do believe I did.”
“And?”
Gokudera sighed. “Yeah, you win,” he said with a grin. “Of all the things I was expecting, I didn’t expect to enjoy time with you on stone cold pavement in the middle of February literally freezing my ass off, but hey. Surprise surprise.”
Yamamoto grinned, offering his hand. “Well then, let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
Despite the kindness proffered by the taller or the two like the suave and dashing men on those book covers, but Gokudera swatted his hand away. “I can do it myself, baseball freak.” And, despite the rather painful affects of lying flat on cold stone for a good while, Gokudera sat up and eventually stood, using Yamamoto to steady himself, and then pat the dirt, pebbles, and dust off of his once-clean suit. “All right. Let’s go,” he said.
The silver-haired man walked on, Yamamoto beside him, his grin continuously growing until he finally laughed out loud, and slung his arm across Gokudera’s shoulders, eliciting a “WHAT THE HELL, FUCK TARD? MY LIMBS AREN’T THAT MOBILE YET,” but that just made Yamamoto laugh even more and make a comment regarding Gokudera returning to normal.
So, as they arrived they left. Yamamoto’s determination ended as accomplishment, and Gokudera’s mood…while it had fluctuated during their stay…had gone back to miserable (especially with his now-very-sore body). But Gokudera wouldn’t let Yamamoto see the random grins that graced his face on their flight back to Japan as random memories from their little romantic trip resurfaced in his mind’s eye.
But now…just to let the whole of the Vongola family know….
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: TYL!8059
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,290
Worksafe: Yes
Warnings: Bit of swearing and implied adult acts.
Author's Note: A really late Valentine's fic D= 'Why did this take you so long?' you ask? Tis simple: What was going to be a 300-word drabble made like rabbits and multiplied to that horrendous word count you see above. It kills me a bit inside. It was also a little tough to write at parts and the ending did not want to be written. I could have probably gone on and on.... *sob* And a little dictionary reference, since Italian is scattered throughout this (please tell me if I got something wrong!):
Nonna/Nonno: Grandma/Grandpa
Sedutorre: Seductor/Seductress
Cara Mia: My Darling
Ti penso sempre: I think of you always
Comme sei bella: You are beautiful/a beauty
Ti Amo: I love you (A more intimate 'I love you')
--~~*~~--
“If you can blow me over with something romantic, then yes. I’ll consider telling the Famiglia.”
Gokudera knew he should never have spoken those words, but he honestly didn’t think he’d have to eat them.
It was supposed to be a ‘romantic trip’, as foretold by the Now-an-Adult-Should-Have-Grown-Out-of-it Baseball Nut, since Gokudera had used ‘romantic’ in his requirements; see Section A. And, well….
Gokudera had to admit, it had been rather romantic. The foolishly hopeless dork Yamamoto had been in middle school had grown into a foolishly hopeless dork with sometimes-suave-and-dashing moments that almost made Gokudera forget about the dork that Yamamoto truly was. In fact, Yamamoto’s ‘suave and dashing’ moments were almost suave and dashing enough to make him forget to untangle his thought process so as to not think in run-on sentences about said suave and dashing moments. Because if his mind was too caught up about said suave and dashing moments, his tongue may have slipped and let something regarding the suave and dashing moments escape. Luckily for him (‘him’ being Gokudera), Yamamoto was still too much of a foolishly hopeless dork to allow Gokudera to over-think his (‘his’ being Yamamoto’s), suave and dashing moments.
However, Gokudera was unable to determine if he should be scarred or amused at that thought: Thinking of the Baseball Nut as ‘suave and dashing’ put images of those romance novel covers in his head, except with Yamamoto being the suave, strong, dashing, and handsome hero of the story with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset. In a sense it was scarring, because Yamamoto was the last person he’d ever expect-or even want-to see on his sister’s, or Miura’s, or even Sasagawa’s book covers. But it was highly amusing all the same: He’d seen Yamamoto naked before, and Yamamoto was not the big muscle-y man with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset. Nay. Yamamoto, while having muscle, was more lean, if anything. Gokudera supposed this came with being a swordsman, but he just couldn’t picture him truly as the big muscle-y man with the petite and sexy redheaded woman draped in his arms with her bosom just about bursting out of her corset.
Instead he was more like the foolishly hopeless dork obsessed with baseball trying to get Gokudera to envision him otherwise. However, right now Gokudera was envisioning him more like a romantic klutz which brought him back to his original train of thought:
Their ‘Romantic Trip’.
That day, early in the morning, Yamamoto had hurriedly woken Gokudera and pushed him along in getting ready for something Gokudera hadn’t even known was happening. If he hadn’t known better, he’d say that Vongola was under attack or something with how Yamamoto had been rushing him. Instead, after Yamamoto had shoved their luggage into his car and sped towards the airport, Gokudera finally caught hold of the date, and the destination of the gate they’d entered. He was not happy to see that grin on Yamamoto’s face when they took their first-class seats in the plane, and frowned, and was determined to be miserable the entire flight in an attempt to bring Yamamoto’s high hopes down. Alas, Yamamoto’s spirits were about as high as the plane was off the ground over Korea and did not fall even as the plane descended and landed in Rome hours later. Gokudera’s spirits, however, were about as low as the opposite side of the world, and did not rise. At all.
Yamamoto’s points in Gokudera’s notebook (titled as ‘Baseball Idiot’s Baseball Points’) were already in the negatives by noon, Japan time. (Although he reasoned later to turn it back to a flat ‘0’ when Yamamoto complained that there were ‘no such things as points in baseball, it’s just home runs’.)
Of course, the first thing they did after getting off the plane was rent a car and go off to a hotel to drop off their things since Yamamoto had a ‘romantic trip’ planned out. Yamamoto was grinning and laughing, and Gokudera was determinedly not-amused and grumbling. At first they traveled around Rome, just seeing sights that Gokudera hadn’t the heart to tell Yamamoto he’d already seen (as he’d lived in Italy for the first fourteen years of his life), and truth be told Yamamoto was just too enthusiastic and excited and sure, yeah, he’d been to Italy as well but it was never for long and he’d only been to the Cavallone estate and to Vongola HQ. “Oh, look at that!”, “Hey, Gokudera, isn’t it awesome?”, “How do they get it to stay like that?”, and “Wouldn’t it be cool to fight the Varia in the Coliseum like the Gladiators?” were questions often shot at Gokudera and Gokudera was unable to decide if he just wanted to laugh in amusement with Yamamoto and relax, or to grit his teeth and punch the freak in the arm for being so excitable.
The day was only a little more than halfway through, probably 3 PM Italy time, but with the time change and being awoken in such a rush, Gokudera was exhausted and demanded sleep ‘right now, damn it before I make you explode from the inside-no, not that way, stop grinning like that.’ So they traveled back to the hotel to their lavish suite (as provided as a guarantee by Vongola) and Gokudera promptly fell upon the giant bed and fell asleep not a moment later after threatening Yamamoto to not wake him up for at least an hour.
So Yamamoto had waited. And waited. And waited. And how many minutes had passed by? Five? So he continued waiting, deciding that even though he too felt a little drowsy, he would stay up, because if he fell asleep then the rest of the evening was ruined. Yamamoto dilly-dallied about the room, checking out the closet (a very large closet, probably as large as his childhood room back at his dad’s sushi restaurant), and the bathroom (pure marble and porcelain with a very soft, warm, and fuzzy rug for stepping out of the shower) was extremely elaborate and he decided that the bathroom was the entire reason a single night in this hotel cost so much (despite the fact that they were Vongola, and as Mafia probably owned all the hotel chains in the whole of Italy). Not that he’d had to pay, of course.
Yamamoto hadn’t noticed when Gokudera woke up not too much later, but thankfully close enough to an hour to not give a real-life-human demonstration of exploding dynamite. Gokudera had been quiet, and Yamamoto had felt a slight shock as Gokudera’s arms had wrapped around him from behind, slowly working on unbuttoning his shirt as his mouth seemed determined on leaving an impressive hicky right there for the world to see. Normally Yamamoto wouldn’t mind, but this time was different.
“Gokudera,” he began, pulling away and turning to face a slightly disgruntled explosives expert. “Not right now. Later.”
“But I want to now. Not later.”
“Later. If we get started now who knows when we’ll finish.”
Yamamoto ginned at Gokudera, whose hair resembled that of a dirty over-used mop, and covered his eyes, save for the flash of a tint of green between his bangs. His shirt was a little messy, though not wrinkled (that fact astounded the baseball player), and his skin looked as though it was shining a little bit as though in anticipation for that which he was denied.
Yet, for as much as that image of Gokudera turned Yamamoto on, and as much as that image of Gokudera made him want to rip Gokudera’s clothing off and simply ravish the wits out of the poor young man, Yamamoto’s resolve was firm, and he would not be swayed from his original plans.
At all.
So by the time they finished up and were cleaned up and dressed up back in their suits (clean ones, of course) it was almost 5:00 PM, and Yamamoto’s reservations were for 5:30. So again he rushed Gokudera, much to Gokudera’s chagrin, and sped through the Italian streets to a very small and hidden pizzeria. So small and hidden, in fact, that Gokudera thought it was just a closed up shop that the owners had forgotten to take the ‘Open’ sign down.
But Gokudera had indeed been surprised: While the pizzeria was indeed small, it was homey, and comfortable. There weren’t many tables, and they were the only ones there, besides the old nonna and nonno that owned the place but they hung out in the back making pizzas and pastas and whatever else it was that old nonnas and nonnos made.
It had started as a simple cheese pizza. Then they decided that an Italian dinner like this wasn’t complete without a good antipasto salad, or bread, or at least half a glass of wine. After a few bites of the pizza they discovered that cheese on its own was kinda plain, so they asked for a small grilled chicken (Gokudera) and some raw tuna (Yamamoto) to decorate it with. The old man and woman looked at them oddly what with their sudden request, but they were more than happy to provide them with what they needed.
Gokudera had nearly burned the roof of his mouth with how hot the cheese had been, and cursed Yamamoto when he’d begun laughing, but Gokudera fought back a grin himself, and instead of retracting points-er, ‘home runs’-from Yamamoto’s score, he added to them with a silent, smiled, and whispered ‘fuck you’ into his wine.
But then it came time to pay the bill. Gokudera made to grab the slip of paper, but Yamamoto was too swift and snatched it away, reading (or at least attempting to read) through it.
“Oh, they knocked half of it off!” Yamamoto had happily exclaimed.
“Let me see it, Baseball Nut,” Gokudera said, trying to grab it back. “You’re probably reading it wrong.”
“Numbers are universal.”
“And that’s supposed to change the fact you’re still an idiot? Give it to me.”
“No! Besides, it’s my treat-I’m the one trying to woo you.”
And so all had been settled for just a few moments, until Yamamoto began looking for his wallet. This task, Gokudera decided, was taking too long at the third minute in Yamamoto’s search.
“…I can’t believe you lost your fucking wallet. Dumbass.”
Yamamoto grinned and tried to attempt a laugh. “I think I left it back in my other pants….”
Again, a part of Gokudera was giving Yamamoto points, simply because it was so Yamamoto to leave his wallet where he was not. Yet, the fact remained that Yamamoto was supposed to be ‘the one trying to woo him’.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, surprising both himself and Yamamoto. “I’ll get it. You just owe me extra,” he added quietly, pulling his own wallet out, and asking the final price of their bill.
Not long after paying off Nonna and Nonno Yamamoto hurriedly led Gokudera out near a park to walk, relax, and stare up at the stars. Unfortunately there was too much light pollution to really make out any of the constellations, and though they were Mafia, the high school freaks with the weird hair-dos and funky techno music were coming out and scared (which of course was just a front since they were mafioso) the two out of the park. Not that they ran or anything. They were much too dignified for that.
So they instead walked along the riverside for a bit on their way back to the hotel, mostly in silence save for Yamamoto mentioning something about the health hazards of smoking when Gokudera popped one in his mouth. But Gokudera did not heed any of the swordsman’s warnings, and continued to hit his cigarette.
“So,” Yamamoto had begun several minutes later. Gokudera spared a glance in his direction, catching the way the moon reflected off of the clear, dark water. “What kinds of words would you like to hear me whisper into your ear?” Yamamoto leaned down to Gokudera’s ear, and whispered gently, “Seduttore.”
Something that Gokudera related akin to a ‘ping’ shocked itself up Gokudera’s spine, and charged through his body all the way to the very end of his fingertips. “When did you learn that…?” His near-finished cigarette hung fragile between his lips.
Yamamoto just grinned, pressing his lips to Gokudera’s temple. “The internet’s really great, isn’t it? Haha!”
“That’s romantic!” Gokudera yelled sarcastically, turning sharply to face Yamamoto. “You could at least pick stuff up from me, or at least go through an Italian-Japanese dictionary…!” His hands flailed hopelessly as he began walking forward, muttering, “The internet…how absolutely romantic. The internet!” He grabbed the butt of his cigarette, threw it down, and smashed it between his oxfords and the cobbled pavement.
“Aw, Gokudera! Come on…!” Yamamoto continued. Gokudera, however, refused to stop and continued to walk ahead, mumbling until Yamamoto caught up.
“Cara mia…!” he said beggingly. This made Gokudera stop, but he tried his damnedest to ignore the little butterflies in his stomach. Yamamoto kept talking, this time in Japanese, but with Italian thrown in at the oddest of times. Phrases like, “Ti penso sempre,” and “Comme sei bella.”
Gokudera grinned, his gaze narrowed in order to hide how...amused he was, though that wasn’t the right word. “Shut up, you idiot. What do you think you’re doing, turning me into a woman, huh?”
Yamamoto’s gaze widened, and just the expression and surprise on his face was enough to make Gokudera’s expression soften and give him more points. “Never mind,” he said with a rare grin, and continued walking with a considerably quieter Yamamoto at his side. The silence was nice, allowing the two to listen to the way the wind played in the trees and the way the water danced in its current, but Gokudera had become accustomed to Yamamoto’s light and fun chatter and had begun to miss it.
“Did you learn anything else in Italian that I can make fun of your accent for?” he asked teasingly.
Yamamoto smiled sharply, shrugging his shoulders in a playful manner. “Just one more.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Gokudera brushed his hair back to better glance at his surroundings up ahead to make sure they were actually on the right way to the hotel.
“Ti amo.”
But, Gokudera had been looking too far ahead so wasn’t able to see the dislodged stone his foot hit, dragged, and tripped upon-sending him to the ground with all the grace and beauty of a dragonfly about to hit a windshield.
…Just without all the blood, guts, and smushing.
And so Gokudera landed on his side after a mid-air twist and relaxed to his back just as Yamamoto-who’d been rather close in proximity at the time of tripping-landed on top of him.
The silver haired man spent several moments trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him, whereas the black haired man spent several moments coughing. When he’d recovered just after Gokudera, he mumbled something about swallowing a bug to which the bomber said “You are a bug, now get off of me you overgrown worm.”
Yamamoto was unmoving, instead just staring at Gokudera, a grin slowly spreading across his face and sending a slightly questionable chill down Gokudera’s spine-though it could have just been the chilled stone beneath him. It was February, after all. “I don’t want to. You’re comfortable.”
…What? Gokudera was a lot of things, but ‘comfortable’ was definitely not one of them. “You idiot. I am not comfortable.”
“Aw, yes you are,” Yamamoto smiled. “You’re soft and warm.”
“…It’s cold outside, I’m not soft, and my hands are callused. I’m not comfortable.”
“Not as callused as mine, I bet.”
The conversation continued about their callused hands, and debated over Gokudera’s comfortableness. To outsiders this seemed rather odd: Two fully grown men, one on top of the other, lying on the path in the middle of February comparing injuries, and discussing the smaller’s comfort. But to the two fully grown men, one on top of the other, lying on the path in the middle of February comparing injuries, and discussing the smaller’s comfort, this was perfectly normal. To an extent.
Finally they gave up on trying to defend their own side, just going into silence as more and more people began to leave and go home (not that there were many to begin with). Neither really moved, but Yamamoto crossed his arms across Gokudera’s chest, grinning his ever-present grin, and Gokudera was unable to not grin back.
“So-how far in the negatives am I in home runs there, Umpire?”
“You’re not in the negatives.”
Yamamoto’s eyebrows shot up a bit higher in surprise. “Really? I’m in the positives?!”
“Yes, you bothersome bastard.”
Yamamoto’s grin widened, making Gokudera wonder if maybe he’d already shared too much information. Yet, part of him was just really happy and didn’t mind the fact that his entire backside was very cold and almost numb, especially when Yamamoto reached forward and pressed his lips softly to Gokudera’s.
And this brought it round to the fulfillment of Yamamoto’s supposed ‘romantic trip’.
“I just didn’t know you were going to take it so literally,” Gokudera said. “I had assumed you’d just meant a date in Rome, but you used your brain, didn’t you?”
Yamamoto’s soft laughter rang out around them as he rolled himself off of Gokudera to stand and pat the dust off of himself. “Well, you added the actual tripping, but I didn’t know it was romantic.”
Gokudera flexed his fingers, feeling the bitter cold of the rings against his skin, and if he didn’t know better he’d say his entire backside was wet simply for how cold he was. “No,” he insisted from the ground. “It was your fault. If you hadn’t used such…stimulating words then I wouldn’t have tripped. It’s your fault.”
“You hinted that it was romantic, right?”
“I do believe I did.”
“And?”
Gokudera sighed. “Yeah, you win,” he said with a grin. “Of all the things I was expecting, I didn’t expect to enjoy time with you on stone cold pavement in the middle of February literally freezing my ass off, but hey. Surprise surprise.”
Yamamoto grinned, offering his hand. “Well then, let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
Despite the kindness proffered by the taller or the two like the suave and dashing men on those book covers, but Gokudera swatted his hand away. “I can do it myself, baseball freak.” And, despite the rather painful affects of lying flat on cold stone for a good while, Gokudera sat up and eventually stood, using Yamamoto to steady himself, and then pat the dirt, pebbles, and dust off of his once-clean suit. “All right. Let’s go,” he said.
The silver-haired man walked on, Yamamoto beside him, his grin continuously growing until he finally laughed out loud, and slung his arm across Gokudera’s shoulders, eliciting a “WHAT THE HELL, FUCK TARD? MY LIMBS AREN’T THAT MOBILE YET,” but that just made Yamamoto laugh even more and make a comment regarding Gokudera returning to normal.
So, as they arrived they left. Yamamoto’s determination ended as accomplishment, and Gokudera’s mood…while it had fluctuated during their stay…had gone back to miserable (especially with his now-very-sore body). But Gokudera wouldn’t let Yamamoto see the random grins that graced his face on their flight back to Japan as random memories from their little romantic trip resurfaced in his mind’s eye.
But now…just to let the whole of the Vongola family know….