in which vee is late with everything;
"Careful with your fingers! Don't touch writing! You don't know what it is to write. It's a crushing task; it bends your spine, blurs your eyesight, creases your stomach, and cracks your ribs." (source)
anyone gonna be in new york city any time in the next month? i've convinced my sister to go with me to the jazz age lawn party at governor's island either august 20th or 21st, and it would be swell if anyone could come with. :D basically if you like vintage stuff or enjoy dressing up in vintage clothing and prancing around in it as though the world couldn't give a damn, THIS IS YOUR PARTY.
kind of sort of in a bad mood because i just found out chord overstreet is leaving glee, and yeah, before you ask, that tv show does/did have that much leverage over my life. :| i'll probably write a lengthy rant that no one is obligated to read (i'd maybe actually prefer if no one read it xD i just need my rant space) just why i'm so mad, but tomorrow. too many emotions tonight.
and lastly, lol, i managed to not make the deadlines of either of the writing fest/contest/thingies i've signed up for. oh well, "bombshell beauty" was more for pyrodynamo anyway (though i have to apologize for lack of p0rn and well, any romantic contact between 1859 in general D:), and i pretty much signed up for write_and_run at the last minute. cranking out a ricardo-centric fic was much harder than i expected, because halfway through, he started to irritatingly take on a life of his own and refused to comply with any of the plotlines i had in mind for him. so i need to retreat and rethink that one. xD in the meantime, have this, my dear nush:
title: bombshell beauty
rating: PG-13 (for language. only ever for language)
word count: 3059 (!!!)
characters: TYL!1859. a lot of them fighting with each other, not a lot of them making out. xD;;
summary: you are one step closer to destroying the world tonight, and it's not going to be pretty.
notes: so much thanks to troublesome_jv for beta-ing! i'm really sorry your efforts didn't end up making it to the official ~fest~, but you are a dear for putting up with me, and my incorrigible versions of gokudera and hibari. this started out as me trying to get them to make out as much as possible, and ended up with them stubbornly not doing so. oops.
-
Twenty days ago, someone had died, and they made love for the first time.
Hibari Kyouya is sifting through never-ending paperwork in his office several hundred feet below ground, when out of nowhere - a springwell of mournful notes, first festering quietly as if afraid to disturb the earth, then erupting forth brazenly. Funeral music. He quickly sets down his pen, exits the room without looking at his aide Kusakabe Tetsuya, and proceeds down to the hall, anger in his steps. It's the fifth door to his left. Kicking the door open, his gaze softens when he sees who it is.
"I am trying to get work done, and you are disrupting the peace."
Gokudera Hayato doesn't look up from his slightly hunched form at the piano, fingers still clenched over the keys. "Mozart's Requiem. I haven't played it since...since I turned sixteen..."
"I didn't ask you to name the composer of this ear-splitting cacophony, I asked you to stop -"
"Hibari, shut up or fuck me."
The man frowns. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He finally chances a glare at Hibari, whose body had stiffened ever so slightly - imperceptible to those who didn't know Hibari Kyouya, but for someone who had been watching him for the past ten years with a steady eye - "You can either shut up, or you can fuck me."
Hibari makes no sign of his rage, save for a tremor in his voice. "If Sawada had not just died, I would've killed you days ago, you insufferable brat."
"Yeah? And what's stoppin' you?" He lights up a cigarette, breathing in slow and deep. The smoke filters out through his nostrils, twin dragons, before he speaks again. "The most feared man in the mafia world showing mercy? That's sure pleasant."
Before Gokudera can react, Hibari has moved in one swift action from the doorway, one knee easily slamming the grey-haired man against the piano bench, an arm bringing a tonfa tightly against his throat. He then reaches down and plucks the cigarette from Gokudera's limp hand, and crushes it in his palm. "No smoking in here, I thought I told you," he says flatly. "And do not mistake my behavior for mercy. I merely thought it would've been pathetic to watch you lose your life on top of the other two things you foolishly clung to all these years." Angry, hot tears are forming on the corners of Gokudera's eyes and speedily dripping into his hair, along his ears.
"Three things," Gokudera grits out between his teeth. "A family. Famiglia."
(Later that night Gokudera would whisper obscene things in Hibari's ears, I love you's and never leave me's, weightless words Hibari found himself suddenly willing to accept. Later, he would learn that he enjoyed the taste of cigarette smoke against tongues and teeth, or the way that, without a word, Gokudera would come forward and kiss him without hesitation. Lessons in undressing, scraping his fingernails across Gokudera’s back, ghosting his touch against sharp collarbone. These were all things Hibari wished he could eradicate from his memory and never discover again, but for all his prescience, he should’ve known from the moment he feared losing Gokudera Hayato.)
"No," Hibari says. "That is one thing you haven't yet lost."
-
Chrome had left on Saturday. A polite girl as always, she bowed deeply and did not ever dare look Hibari in the eyes. It was one of those things he could imagine Mukuro muttering to her against the scalp of her skull - "Do not trust that mangy mutt Sawada Tsunayoshi keeps by his side, my love. He's a stray with no other purpose than to fight, more bite than bark." And for all intents and purposes, he was correct to warn her. Deference was an easy way to make Hibari forget the truth of her nature.
"I'm truly sorry," she was saying. "I would've stayed, as Gokudera-san will, but..." She sucked in a deep breath, something that made Hibari think she was trying to stem an incumbent flood of tears. "Because I no longer have a boss, I must follow my master."
"Tell your 'master' it was unnecessary to make an act out of your sincerity." He took a pointed look down the hall. "Go. Get out of here. And if you knew what was good for you, you would never come back."
"Right..." She bent down, picked up her bags, and then smiled at Hibari, venturing eye contact.
"Thank you so much, Hibari-san. For...everything. Really."
He did not say anything, and watched her leave.
Lambo was one of the last to go. He had refused to believe the truth, that anything had changed. Refused the truth that they were sitting in the middle of a war and had barely gotten away by the skin of their teeth. "Grow up, herbivore," Hibari told him. "War produces casualties. You know this.”
He'd always been a scaredy-cat - lazy and scared, but now more scared than anything. Sobs wracked his entire body, and not even kicking his bags would entice the boy to move. "I just wish...I just wish we could..."
The defunct lightning guardian of the Vongola family still had his own clan, his own kind to go back to -- a luxury even Hibari found himself envious of. There was a sense of stability in that. Completion. "Go," he says one last time, "and take that Chinese girl with you." Lambo nodded, face still a grotesque, blubbering contortion, and waited for I-Pin at the door.
"And then there's you," Hibari said, arms crossed, tone edging on annoyance. "When are you getting out of here? Or will I have to physically force you out?"
Gokudera, who had been curled up on the couch, listless, said softly, "You can't make me leave. This is my home."
"No, it is not, now that the Vongola has disbanded and Sawada specifically instructed for everything to be left in my hands. You may choose to leave with your limbs intact, or, if you'd prefer, I can arrange for your broken body to be left on the side of the road."
"No," he said, sitting up, "you don't understand. As long as I'm here, the Vongola is not over with. As long as the Vongola is still here, this is my home. My boss is still Jyuudaime, and since he's not exactly around to give me orders anymore - I can do whatever the fuck I want."
"You're delusional, still so attached to the Vongola name. Like that kid."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare compare me to that stupid cow."
Hibari turned around and waved a hand. "You can stay. Just don't get in my way. I hate being crowded."
-
It's him, and Gokudera, sitting at the dining table, seven chairs apart. Normally the round table would be occupied with many more, and Hibari would take his food to his office (or skip meals altogether), but today, they are the only ones left. A plate of toast, some condiments, and a large pot of hastily warmed Campbell’s chicken soup constitute as their supper; neither knows how to cook. Gokudera picks up a silver knife and expertly twirls it between his fingers before dipping it in a jar of peanut butter.
"We have jam. Who the fuck eats jam here?"
"That was Yamamoto's."
He suddenly stops spreading his toast, arm faltering in his movement, and casts Hibari a quick look before resuming. "Yamamoto likes jam," he states, incredulous.
"Yes."
"I knew the bastard for ten years, and I never knew --" He looks as though he's trying to get out an inexplicable thought. A small frown, eyes set in concern. "Never mind." He takes a bite of toast.
"How did you know?"
Hibari's eyes are focused on his. "I take care of the grocery list every week."
"Oh."
Hibari's toast is lightly buttered. Even then, it doesn't lend much taste, which is, one could say, just the way he liked it. Today, it tasted heavy, somehow. Bitter.
"Do you still think of him?"
Gokudera's head jerked up. "Who?"
"Yamamoto Takeshi."
Gokudera's face is at times such an emotional and geographic wonder, Hibari wonders how the kid managed to schlep his way for five years through the Italian slums. Or maybe it's just Hibari -- Hibari who can read him like an open book, who can take one glance at his slight muscle twitches and smooth, planed features and know he's upset. That he’s put up his walls up again, hiding behind tried and true aggression.
"No."
"You're lying."
"Shut up," he snaps, "why do you care, anyhow?"
"Because you have become an eyesore."
Gokudera slams his hands on the table, giving everything a quiet shake. "And you're a heartless bastard. I know you didn't care much for the Tenth, but goddamn, quit with that smug look. Quit trying act like everything's fine, hiding out here in your comfortable little hole while the enemy's out there --"
"Are you trying to imply that I'm a coward?" Hibari says, narrowing his eyes. One of his hands instinctively reaches for a tonfa.
"Yeah. Yeah, a fucking coward. That's what I'm calling you."
"And what exactly are you doing?"
Gokudera has a momentary stunned expression, as if someone had just slapped him across the face. "Nothing."
"Nothing."
He slouches back in his chair.
"He's not coming back," Hibari says. "neither of them are."
When his eyes flutter back to Hibari, they are devoid of anger. Gone. "I know."
(The next day, Hibari finds the jar of jam wedged in the trash.)
-
Yamamoto had been the first to leave, and Gokudera had been utterly enraged.
The tall Japanese man clapped Hibari on the shoulder soundly, three times, then bent down to pick up his luggage.
“After hours of argument and negotiation,” Hibari said coldly, “you couldn’t convince him to leave with you?”
True to Yamamoto’s nature, he plastered on an easy smile even in the most difficult of situations, though it was tinged with sadness. “He’s stubborn, as always. Still thinks there’s a battle to be fought.”
“What would you do if he’s correct?”
Yamamoto didn’t answer, but Hibari knew - no, Yamamoto would never come back for the battle, not this time. Not since his father was murdered, not since their armies had been felled by the hundreds, not since their king died. Yamamoto is a baseball man; he knows the winning odds.
“It isn’t just a game to you anymore, is it?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it isn’t.”
“But you love him.”
“I do. Unfortunately…” He scratched the back of his head. “It seems I hadn’t ever done enough to earn his.” He closed his eyes and turned away. “Can you do a favor for me, and protect him for me? It’s not that I don’t trust him, it’s just…he’s the only thing I have left. Even if he doesn’t come with.”
Hibari crossed his arms. “I don’t do favors.”
Yamamoto gave a low laugh. “Well,” he murmured, “just my luck.”
-
"Did you feel betrayed?"
Gokudera snorts. "Why the fuck are you suddenly so interested?"
"I am doing a favor for him."
"Favor? Since when do you do favors?"
Hibari throws him an unamused look. "Answer my question."
The Italian man shrugs. "I bet it was he who felt more betrayed."
"You're avoiding the issue."
He suddenly grows quiet. "Yes," he replies truthfully. He then turns to Hibari, frown etched on his face. "Do you think I was...wrong?"
"Yes." Hibari regards him with a sidelong glance. "Yamamoto believed you stayed because you had the will to fight. In actuality you've given up the battle for absolutely nothing."
"I haven't given up yet," he says with a growl.
"Smokin' Bomb Hayato," Hibari enunciates slowly, as if each syllable were a lullaby he had forgotten to sing when he was young. "You used to be called that."
"Yeah, so?"
"Where is that determination now?"
"What are you talking about?" Gokudera's fist clenches reflexively, crushing the cigarette between his fingers. "I still have it."
"If Sawada had been killed while you were at your peak, you would've had your revenge within days."
"Revenge?" He laughs hoarsely. "What do you know about revenge? I've been trying to avenge one death for fifteen years and now -- fuck --"
He puts his head down, arms shielding the sides of his face. "Living down here," he says, words choked with fury, "living here is like a cage." He swallows, and tilts his head to side without looking. "Have you got any more leads?"
"No."
A siren goes off above ground, in the distance, signaling that the outer atmosphere was reaching toxic levels of radiation. Its screech is archaic, scrapped from old parts, the only remaining relic from ten years past. Not even the people have been saved. Hibari listens. Gokudera smokes.
(Yamamoto had once tried to call him “Hayato,” but both had been too nervous about it. The name was too intimate. Gokudera's mother had addressed him that way, with an added "-chan" tacked to the end, and he wasn't about to lend that to just anyone yet.
Hibari has only ever called him, in varying degrees of tone, "omae.")
-
When they were fifteen, Gokudera liked to believe, they were invincible.
Everything had seemed glorious, then. Being part of a mafia family was only a dream for many years, a dream he'd chased around the golden countrysides of Sicily into the trash-filled alleys of Rome. Every wall was destructible, every enemy and obstacle blown to bits by TNT. Smokin' Bomb Hayato -- it was one of those names he'd really earned.
(Where had it all gone?)
Once, Hibari had caught him in the music room, using the piano without permission, and not nearly having the restraint he had in his twenties, flew at Gokudera with his tonfas mid-measure, and he'd barely held off the head of the Disciplinary Committee enough to whip out his dynamite. Just barely. (The following week, he'd have suspicious bruises in the shape of tonfas all down his arms, and would change the subject whenever anyone brought it up.)
A few ground-shaking explosions later, Hibari had him pinned against the piano bench. Gokudera was never a match for him, especially when he lost the advantage of mid-range combat.
Hibari glared derisively on the sheet music still standing cheerfully on top of the keys. "What is it," he said simply.
Gokudera blinked a few times. "The piano? The sheet music?"
"The song, the song," he said impatiently, as if to imply he didn't have time to deal with this nonsense.
"Um...Mozart's Requiem Mass in D minor...the Lacrimosa in parti--"
"Why."
"Sorry?"
"Why," Hibari said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "are you playing it, after hours, without permission."
"I..." He sucked in a breath. "I can't explain."
One tonfa pressed tightly against Gokudera's throat as he gasped for air. "Speak," Hibari demanded, "or I will cut off your ability to breathe."
"B-birthday," he rasped out, upon which he instantly regretted, because Hibari released his grip and now had a peculiar expression of interest on his face.
"Why would you play something more suited for funerals on a birthday?"
"Because," Gokudera said softly, because, because what could he say? "Someone I loved died today."
He'd expected Hibari to tell him he was absurd, or to openly laugh in his face, but instead he simply got off Gokudera’s chest and threw the sheet music in his face. "Go," he commanded, and Gokudera had complied hurriedly, confused. Years later, he would ponder upon Hibari's actions -- perhaps someone Hibari loved had also died? Perhaps the boy really did have a shred of sympathy left? -- but for now --
For now, perched on his bike in the parking lot, he took out his lighter and set flame to the sheet music. Each white corner blackened and curled, rotting to ashes. It was the last time he thought he'd ever play the Requiem Mass for an audience of one, but ten years later he'd prove that you can take the Mozart away from the kid, but you can't take it out. Those kinds of notes are etched into his soul, his fingertips, hungry for the taste of ivory.
"Happy birthday," he whispered soundlessly.
-
Ten P.M. Hibari's schedule is like clockwork, and in just a few moments, he'll leave the office, send Kusakabe off, and retire to his bedroom. Gokudera leans against the wall and waits.
It's become an odd routine -- they'll walk in silence first to Hibari's room, then Gokudera will proceed to his own, two doors down. It's not as if either of them needs the protection, obviously, and moreover, not even Hibari's own right-hand man is privileged to walk on equal terms with him.
They are halfway to their destination when Hibari says, "There is something on your mind."
He shrugs. "Just remembering when you caught me in that music room and gave me shiners all down my arms."
"No." Hibari stops. "There is something else."
"Do we have to do this," Gokudera says in exasperation, whirling around, "do you always have to treat me like I'm some goddamn psych patient?"
He ignores him. "Your actions have become erratic."
"Erratic?"
"Unpredictable."
A look of disbelief crosses Gokudera's face. "You're worried you can't read me anymore?"
When Hibari doesn't answer, Gokudera tousles his silver hair before turning back down the hall. Quietly, Hibari follows him until they reach the door.
"Hibari," he mutters, eyes cast toward the floor, "what if I lose track of myself?"
"Then I will be the one to set you back on your path." He unlocks his door and swings it open.
Gokudera leans against the doorframe.
“Have I, yet?”
Hibari pauses briefly in undoing his tie. “No.”
"So what...did it mean when you said, I hadn't lost my family yet?"
"Exactly that."
He frowns. "None of them are coming back."
"Neither am I leaving, Hayato." Hibari starts unbuttoning his suit, slender fingers slitting open the front. "Are you coming in? If so, shut the door."
Gokudera smiles, a cracked, breath-taking thing, and closes the door behind him.
(You taste like him, only sweeter.)
-
fin.
anyone gonna be in new york city any time in the next month? i've convinced my sister to go with me to the jazz age lawn party at governor's island either august 20th or 21st, and it would be swell if anyone could come with. :D basically if you like vintage stuff or enjoy dressing up in vintage clothing and prancing around in it as though the world couldn't give a damn, THIS IS YOUR PARTY.
kind of sort of in a bad mood because i just found out chord overstreet is leaving glee, and yeah, before you ask, that tv show does/did have that much leverage over my life. :| i'll probably write a lengthy rant that no one is obligated to read (i'd maybe actually prefer if no one read it xD i just need my rant space) just why i'm so mad, but tomorrow. too many emotions tonight.
and lastly, lol, i managed to not make the deadlines of either of the writing fest/contest/thingies i've signed up for. oh well, "bombshell beauty" was more for pyrodynamo anyway (though i have to apologize for lack of p0rn and well, any romantic contact between 1859 in general D:), and i pretty much signed up for write_and_run at the last minute. cranking out a ricardo-centric fic was much harder than i expected, because halfway through, he started to irritatingly take on a life of his own and refused to comply with any of the plotlines i had in mind for him. so i need to retreat and rethink that one. xD in the meantime, have this, my dear nush:
title: bombshell beauty
rating: PG-13 (for language. only ever for language)
word count: 3059 (!!!)
characters: TYL!1859. a lot of them fighting with each other, not a lot of them making out. xD;;
summary: you are one step closer to destroying the world tonight, and it's not going to be pretty.
notes: so much thanks to troublesome_jv for beta-ing! i'm really sorry your efforts didn't end up making it to the official ~fest~, but you are a dear for putting up with me, and my incorrigible versions of gokudera and hibari. this started out as me trying to get them to make out as much as possible, and ended up with them stubbornly not doing so. oops.
-
Twenty days ago, someone had died, and they made love for the first time.
Hibari Kyouya is sifting through never-ending paperwork in his office several hundred feet below ground, when out of nowhere - a springwell of mournful notes, first festering quietly as if afraid to disturb the earth, then erupting forth brazenly. Funeral music. He quickly sets down his pen, exits the room without looking at his aide Kusakabe Tetsuya, and proceeds down to the hall, anger in his steps. It's the fifth door to his left. Kicking the door open, his gaze softens when he sees who it is.
"I am trying to get work done, and you are disrupting the peace."
Gokudera Hayato doesn't look up from his slightly hunched form at the piano, fingers still clenched over the keys. "Mozart's Requiem. I haven't played it since...since I turned sixteen..."
"I didn't ask you to name the composer of this ear-splitting cacophony, I asked you to stop -"
"Hibari, shut up or fuck me."
The man frowns. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He finally chances a glare at Hibari, whose body had stiffened ever so slightly - imperceptible to those who didn't know Hibari Kyouya, but for someone who had been watching him for the past ten years with a steady eye - "You can either shut up, or you can fuck me."
Hibari makes no sign of his rage, save for a tremor in his voice. "If Sawada had not just died, I would've killed you days ago, you insufferable brat."
"Yeah? And what's stoppin' you?" He lights up a cigarette, breathing in slow and deep. The smoke filters out through his nostrils, twin dragons, before he speaks again. "The most feared man in the mafia world showing mercy? That's sure pleasant."
Before Gokudera can react, Hibari has moved in one swift action from the doorway, one knee easily slamming the grey-haired man against the piano bench, an arm bringing a tonfa tightly against his throat. He then reaches down and plucks the cigarette from Gokudera's limp hand, and crushes it in his palm. "No smoking in here, I thought I told you," he says flatly. "And do not mistake my behavior for mercy. I merely thought it would've been pathetic to watch you lose your life on top of the other two things you foolishly clung to all these years." Angry, hot tears are forming on the corners of Gokudera's eyes and speedily dripping into his hair, along his ears.
"Three things," Gokudera grits out between his teeth. "A family. Famiglia."
(Later that night Gokudera would whisper obscene things in Hibari's ears, I love you's and never leave me's, weightless words Hibari found himself suddenly willing to accept. Later, he would learn that he enjoyed the taste of cigarette smoke against tongues and teeth, or the way that, without a word, Gokudera would come forward and kiss him without hesitation. Lessons in undressing, scraping his fingernails across Gokudera’s back, ghosting his touch against sharp collarbone. These were all things Hibari wished he could eradicate from his memory and never discover again, but for all his prescience, he should’ve known from the moment he feared losing Gokudera Hayato.)
"No," Hibari says. "That is one thing you haven't yet lost."
-
Chrome had left on Saturday. A polite girl as always, she bowed deeply and did not ever dare look Hibari in the eyes. It was one of those things he could imagine Mukuro muttering to her against the scalp of her skull - "Do not trust that mangy mutt Sawada Tsunayoshi keeps by his side, my love. He's a stray with no other purpose than to fight, more bite than bark." And for all intents and purposes, he was correct to warn her. Deference was an easy way to make Hibari forget the truth of her nature.
"I'm truly sorry," she was saying. "I would've stayed, as Gokudera-san will, but..." She sucked in a deep breath, something that made Hibari think she was trying to stem an incumbent flood of tears. "Because I no longer have a boss, I must follow my master."
"Tell your 'master' it was unnecessary to make an act out of your sincerity." He took a pointed look down the hall. "Go. Get out of here. And if you knew what was good for you, you would never come back."
"Right..." She bent down, picked up her bags, and then smiled at Hibari, venturing eye contact.
"Thank you so much, Hibari-san. For...everything. Really."
He did not say anything, and watched her leave.
Lambo was one of the last to go. He had refused to believe the truth, that anything had changed. Refused the truth that they were sitting in the middle of a war and had barely gotten away by the skin of their teeth. "Grow up, herbivore," Hibari told him. "War produces casualties. You know this.”
He'd always been a scaredy-cat - lazy and scared, but now more scared than anything. Sobs wracked his entire body, and not even kicking his bags would entice the boy to move. "I just wish...I just wish we could..."
The defunct lightning guardian of the Vongola family still had his own clan, his own kind to go back to -- a luxury even Hibari found himself envious of. There was a sense of stability in that. Completion. "Go," he says one last time, "and take that Chinese girl with you." Lambo nodded, face still a grotesque, blubbering contortion, and waited for I-Pin at the door.
"And then there's you," Hibari said, arms crossed, tone edging on annoyance. "When are you getting out of here? Or will I have to physically force you out?"
Gokudera, who had been curled up on the couch, listless, said softly, "You can't make me leave. This is my home."
"No, it is not, now that the Vongola has disbanded and Sawada specifically instructed for everything to be left in my hands. You may choose to leave with your limbs intact, or, if you'd prefer, I can arrange for your broken body to be left on the side of the road."
"No," he said, sitting up, "you don't understand. As long as I'm here, the Vongola is not over with. As long as the Vongola is still here, this is my home. My boss is still Jyuudaime, and since he's not exactly around to give me orders anymore - I can do whatever the fuck I want."
"You're delusional, still so attached to the Vongola name. Like that kid."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare compare me to that stupid cow."
Hibari turned around and waved a hand. "You can stay. Just don't get in my way. I hate being crowded."
-
It's him, and Gokudera, sitting at the dining table, seven chairs apart. Normally the round table would be occupied with many more, and Hibari would take his food to his office (or skip meals altogether), but today, they are the only ones left. A plate of toast, some condiments, and a large pot of hastily warmed Campbell’s chicken soup constitute as their supper; neither knows how to cook. Gokudera picks up a silver knife and expertly twirls it between his fingers before dipping it in a jar of peanut butter.
"We have jam. Who the fuck eats jam here?"
"That was Yamamoto's."
He suddenly stops spreading his toast, arm faltering in his movement, and casts Hibari a quick look before resuming. "Yamamoto likes jam," he states, incredulous.
"Yes."
"I knew the bastard for ten years, and I never knew --" He looks as though he's trying to get out an inexplicable thought. A small frown, eyes set in concern. "Never mind." He takes a bite of toast.
"How did you know?"
Hibari's eyes are focused on his. "I take care of the grocery list every week."
"Oh."
Hibari's toast is lightly buttered. Even then, it doesn't lend much taste, which is, one could say, just the way he liked it. Today, it tasted heavy, somehow. Bitter.
"Do you still think of him?"
Gokudera's head jerked up. "Who?"
"Yamamoto Takeshi."
Gokudera's face is at times such an emotional and geographic wonder, Hibari wonders how the kid managed to schlep his way for five years through the Italian slums. Or maybe it's just Hibari -- Hibari who can read him like an open book, who can take one glance at his slight muscle twitches and smooth, planed features and know he's upset. That he’s put up his walls up again, hiding behind tried and true aggression.
"No."
"You're lying."
"Shut up," he snaps, "why do you care, anyhow?"
"Because you have become an eyesore."
Gokudera slams his hands on the table, giving everything a quiet shake. "And you're a heartless bastard. I know you didn't care much for the Tenth, but goddamn, quit with that smug look. Quit trying act like everything's fine, hiding out here in your comfortable little hole while the enemy's out there --"
"Are you trying to imply that I'm a coward?" Hibari says, narrowing his eyes. One of his hands instinctively reaches for a tonfa.
"Yeah. Yeah, a fucking coward. That's what I'm calling you."
"And what exactly are you doing?"
Gokudera has a momentary stunned expression, as if someone had just slapped him across the face. "Nothing."
"Nothing."
He slouches back in his chair.
"He's not coming back," Hibari says. "neither of them are."
When his eyes flutter back to Hibari, they are devoid of anger. Gone. "I know."
(The next day, Hibari finds the jar of jam wedged in the trash.)
-
Yamamoto had been the first to leave, and Gokudera had been utterly enraged.
The tall Japanese man clapped Hibari on the shoulder soundly, three times, then bent down to pick up his luggage.
“After hours of argument and negotiation,” Hibari said coldly, “you couldn’t convince him to leave with you?”
True to Yamamoto’s nature, he plastered on an easy smile even in the most difficult of situations, though it was tinged with sadness. “He’s stubborn, as always. Still thinks there’s a battle to be fought.”
“What would you do if he’s correct?”
Yamamoto didn’t answer, but Hibari knew - no, Yamamoto would never come back for the battle, not this time. Not since his father was murdered, not since their armies had been felled by the hundreds, not since their king died. Yamamoto is a baseball man; he knows the winning odds.
“It isn’t just a game to you anymore, is it?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it isn’t.”
“But you love him.”
“I do. Unfortunately…” He scratched the back of his head. “It seems I hadn’t ever done enough to earn his.” He closed his eyes and turned away. “Can you do a favor for me, and protect him for me? It’s not that I don’t trust him, it’s just…he’s the only thing I have left. Even if he doesn’t come with.”
Hibari crossed his arms. “I don’t do favors.”
Yamamoto gave a low laugh. “Well,” he murmured, “just my luck.”
-
"Did you feel betrayed?"
Gokudera snorts. "Why the fuck are you suddenly so interested?"
"I am doing a favor for him."
"Favor? Since when do you do favors?"
Hibari throws him an unamused look. "Answer my question."
The Italian man shrugs. "I bet it was he who felt more betrayed."
"You're avoiding the issue."
He suddenly grows quiet. "Yes," he replies truthfully. He then turns to Hibari, frown etched on his face. "Do you think I was...wrong?"
"Yes." Hibari regards him with a sidelong glance. "Yamamoto believed you stayed because you had the will to fight. In actuality you've given up the battle for absolutely nothing."
"I haven't given up yet," he says with a growl.
"Smokin' Bomb Hayato," Hibari enunciates slowly, as if each syllable were a lullaby he had forgotten to sing when he was young. "You used to be called that."
"Yeah, so?"
"Where is that determination now?"
"What are you talking about?" Gokudera's fist clenches reflexively, crushing the cigarette between his fingers. "I still have it."
"If Sawada had been killed while you were at your peak, you would've had your revenge within days."
"Revenge?" He laughs hoarsely. "What do you know about revenge? I've been trying to avenge one death for fifteen years and now -- fuck --"
He puts his head down, arms shielding the sides of his face. "Living down here," he says, words choked with fury, "living here is like a cage." He swallows, and tilts his head to side without looking. "Have you got any more leads?"
"No."
A siren goes off above ground, in the distance, signaling that the outer atmosphere was reaching toxic levels of radiation. Its screech is archaic, scrapped from old parts, the only remaining relic from ten years past. Not even the people have been saved. Hibari listens. Gokudera smokes.
(Yamamoto had once tried to call him “Hayato,” but both had been too nervous about it. The name was too intimate. Gokudera's mother had addressed him that way, with an added "-chan" tacked to the end, and he wasn't about to lend that to just anyone yet.
Hibari has only ever called him, in varying degrees of tone, "omae.")
-
When they were fifteen, Gokudera liked to believe, they were invincible.
Everything had seemed glorious, then. Being part of a mafia family was only a dream for many years, a dream he'd chased around the golden countrysides of Sicily into the trash-filled alleys of Rome. Every wall was destructible, every enemy and obstacle blown to bits by TNT. Smokin' Bomb Hayato -- it was one of those names he'd really earned.
(Where had it all gone?)
Once, Hibari had caught him in the music room, using the piano without permission, and not nearly having the restraint he had in his twenties, flew at Gokudera with his tonfas mid-measure, and he'd barely held off the head of the Disciplinary Committee enough to whip out his dynamite. Just barely. (The following week, he'd have suspicious bruises in the shape of tonfas all down his arms, and would change the subject whenever anyone brought it up.)
A few ground-shaking explosions later, Hibari had him pinned against the piano bench. Gokudera was never a match for him, especially when he lost the advantage of mid-range combat.
Hibari glared derisively on the sheet music still standing cheerfully on top of the keys. "What is it," he said simply.
Gokudera blinked a few times. "The piano? The sheet music?"
"The song, the song," he said impatiently, as if to imply he didn't have time to deal with this nonsense.
"Um...Mozart's Requiem Mass in D minor...the Lacrimosa in parti--"
"Why."
"Sorry?"
"Why," Hibari said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "are you playing it, after hours, without permission."
"I..." He sucked in a breath. "I can't explain."
One tonfa pressed tightly against Gokudera's throat as he gasped for air. "Speak," Hibari demanded, "or I will cut off your ability to breathe."
"B-birthday," he rasped out, upon which he instantly regretted, because Hibari released his grip and now had a peculiar expression of interest on his face.
"Why would you play something more suited for funerals on a birthday?"
"Because," Gokudera said softly, because, because what could he say? "Someone I loved died today."
He'd expected Hibari to tell him he was absurd, or to openly laugh in his face, but instead he simply got off Gokudera’s chest and threw the sheet music in his face. "Go," he commanded, and Gokudera had complied hurriedly, confused. Years later, he would ponder upon Hibari's actions -- perhaps someone Hibari loved had also died? Perhaps the boy really did have a shred of sympathy left? -- but for now --
For now, perched on his bike in the parking lot, he took out his lighter and set flame to the sheet music. Each white corner blackened and curled, rotting to ashes. It was the last time he thought he'd ever play the Requiem Mass for an audience of one, but ten years later he'd prove that you can take the Mozart away from the kid, but you can't take it out. Those kinds of notes are etched into his soul, his fingertips, hungry for the taste of ivory.
"Happy birthday," he whispered soundlessly.
-
Ten P.M. Hibari's schedule is like clockwork, and in just a few moments, he'll leave the office, send Kusakabe off, and retire to his bedroom. Gokudera leans against the wall and waits.
It's become an odd routine -- they'll walk in silence first to Hibari's room, then Gokudera will proceed to his own, two doors down. It's not as if either of them needs the protection, obviously, and moreover, not even Hibari's own right-hand man is privileged to walk on equal terms with him.
They are halfway to their destination when Hibari says, "There is something on your mind."
He shrugs. "Just remembering when you caught me in that music room and gave me shiners all down my arms."
"No." Hibari stops. "There is something else."
"Do we have to do this," Gokudera says in exasperation, whirling around, "do you always have to treat me like I'm some goddamn psych patient?"
He ignores him. "Your actions have become erratic."
"Erratic?"
"Unpredictable."
A look of disbelief crosses Gokudera's face. "You're worried you can't read me anymore?"
When Hibari doesn't answer, Gokudera tousles his silver hair before turning back down the hall. Quietly, Hibari follows him until they reach the door.
"Hibari," he mutters, eyes cast toward the floor, "what if I lose track of myself?"
"Then I will be the one to set you back on your path." He unlocks his door and swings it open.
Gokudera leans against the doorframe.
“Have I, yet?”
Hibari pauses briefly in undoing his tie. “No.”
"So what...did it mean when you said, I hadn't lost my family yet?"
"Exactly that."
He frowns. "None of them are coming back."
"Neither am I leaving, Hayato." Hibari starts unbuttoning his suit, slender fingers slitting open the front. "Are you coming in? If so, shut the door."
Gokudera smiles, a cracked, breath-taking thing, and closes the door behind him.
(You taste like him, only sweeter.)
-
fin.