(no subject)
☣in danger of.
PG13 | COLOGNE | 3923
It's the end of yesterday, and the start of tomorrow. The clock ticks right into the countdown seconds of twelve midnight, ten, nine, eight, seven-wait. There's a heartbeat, and it skips a few chords; it's like learning how to believe all over again, because there it is. Illuminated by a green glow, it's haunting; near ghastly, but the faint traces of white light make it look almost ethereal, surreal-unreal. Fine detail is lost, but he can't miss the traceried windows, the pointed arches, the twin spires, and the majestic façade it's all about. It's a stairway to heaven, to a god that might exist and might not at the same time.
He can't help but put a palm on top of his heart, to feel it beating, feel it pounding, feel it stop, because in that one moment, that one second right after twelve, time freezes. It freezes, because the moving picture frame in front of his eyes demanded complete attention, no distractions, but he's fine with that. He'll comply with that. Anything to further the appreciation of what he deems to be the pinnacle of art, of faith, of believing way too much.
12:02AM, and that moment
(come back please come back-)
slips away. Just like that.
The fifty-seven year old man releases the breath he's been holding; it got caught up in his throat, caught up in that sixty-second private film of man-made beauty. He knows it's all a fabrication, an imitation copy of what it's like to be beautiful, but his kind eyes, tired eyes, love it all the same. Enjoys it, lives for it. Because eventually you learn to cherish perfection in any shape, way, or form, and you come to realize that there's nothing wrong with lying to yourself every now and then.
He does it everyday.
He's doing it right now, and as much as he would like/love to stop pretending, he can't, he wouldn't. He won't. Not when tonight and today is the start of a better-brighter-happy tomorrow, when everyone refuses to be fast asleep, in exchange for a few hours of made-up pleasantry, of I'm okay, we're okay, nothing's wrong, and everything's just fine. It always had been, it always will be-but the man knew better, knows better, because it's only been a week since they received a rumor (another fabrication, or maybe it's a well-thought out truth? a lie?), news that told them they've been infiltrated, betrayed.
But who? is the question on everyone's lips. Why? is the question on everyone's minds. How? is the question they don't want to ask.
"Some are better left unanswered," he remembers himself saying, to a young girl in his arms with kind eyes, tired eyes just like his own. The waves of her black hair got tangled in his fingertips as he tried to tame it; they curled, and twirled, and felt alive. And for that brief period in time, when she cuddled up even closer, put her ear to his heart so that she could listen to the b-b-beating of his chest and ribs, he didn't have to lie to himself. She was perfection coinciding with beauty right there and then.
Suddenly, there's an ache, the kind you associate with a left arm going numb, but it's not enough to kill, just enough to make him miss the feeling of hugging her close, of knowing that she's just a bedroom away from where he usually sleeps. But right now, the inane chatter that bubbles throughout the whole room finally tears him away from his own little world; it makes him avert his eyes from the glass window to what's always been around him.
It's a splash of red and gold with wood littered all around, and the floor is made out of the finest marble the world has to offer. Curtains of crush velvet drape from the ceiling, all the way to the floor; they're almost too soft to touch. A string quartet is off to the side, playing music that only adds up to the opulent atmosphere that already has the entire crowd and place in a trance-like grip. A quiet sort of lull, of relaxation, of hello, good evening, would you like to dance tonight? It amuses him, to say the least, that a lot of people are still up at this hour, but then again, he's always known this was going to be the case-
"So what do you feel like doing now?" It catches his attention, because the words are uttered by a voice he hasn't heard before; it's rough, a bit deep, but not too much, and it's not quite old, not quite young. He turns to look, spots them, sees them, and starts smiling.
There's a laugh, short and genuine. The answer is spoken with an accent, so he surmises the Italian language isn't this one's mother tongue.
"I feel like eating sushi, haha."
The man watches on as the shorter of the two snorts and shoots a mildly incredulous look at the one beside him. He can tell that he's not too happy with the answer he's received. "-you're in Germany and you want to eat sushi?!" An odd choice of food, the man thinks to himself, but the smile never leaves his face. He knows, he understands, what this all means now.
It all happens in a quick heartbeat, one stride, two strides, three, and he's already greeting them with a smile, gesturing with his right hand over to the buffet table that's full of untouched delicacies. "Have you tried the apple cake yet?" He takes note of the confused look on their faces, and almost laughs. Young people these days-was it wrong for an old man to want to start up a conversation now? Regardless, he goes on, "You simply must if you haven't. The cinnamon brings out a sweetness you would never be able to taste if you eat an apple alone." And this is something he adds as an afterthought, a second doubt, "It's my daughter's favorite."
There's an awkward silence, and it's the one with the scar on his chin that answers his smile with one of his own, "Thanks. We'll keep that in mind."
"My pleasure," his face looks a little sadder now, "Now if you'll excuse me-" There's no explanation that follows, but with a nod of his head, he turns around and takes his leave. His room is only a few minutes away from the ballroom, but the staircase that leads to the right floor made the travel seem longer than it is. Maybe it's just his imagination, or maybe it's him doing it on purpose. It's childish, too hopeful, but he knows, he knows he can't stretch out the distance between himself and the inevitable for way too long.
His mind is racing, and his heart beats that much faster. The smile he continues to wear slowly fades into a smaller one, and it doesn't even disappear when he clicks his door open and shuts it closed.
"That was a pretty interesting guy."
He hears it like an offhand comment, a second thought thrown into the table long after the man has retreated from them. Click, click, click, and there's a cigarette burning in between his lips. He's getting stares from the nearby guests, in disbelief, as if what he's doing is the most obscene thing anyone could do-young people these days, where are your manners? manners? fuck manners-but he ignores them, pretends not to notice. The last thing he wants to waste a few precious seconds on is pleasing a society that's built on pretension, a society that reminds him of what it used to be like back when it was all about doing what you didn't want to do just so someone wouldn't lose face.
Black and white keys, and an out of tune high G-a distant memory that's trying its best to break out of the corner it's trapped in, but he doesn't let it, won't let it, not when he has more important things to fuss about.
"I don't see what's so interesting about some old man-" here, he flicks the stray ashes away and breathes out the excess smoke "-besides, we're supposed to be looking out for the 'Ndrangheta Don. Don't get so careless, baseball freak." It almost comes out as a growl, a low order, but he keeps his temper in check. It's not really the time to revert back to strangling a guy whose laugh still annoys him, even if it's all for different reasons now. Scowling even more, he sends one last glance at where the old man disappeared to, and-
And then it's like a slow trainwreck to realization.
Fuuta's voice crashes inside his head (Twelfth Generation Don, Gokudera-nii; he's a kind gentleman, cherishes his famiglia, especially his daughter, so I don't see why you have to resort to something like this-), and all he can think of is shit, shit, shit, he let the target slip right through their fingers. A careless mistake, and he's not going to let himself let this go so easily, but right now, he's got someone to find, someone to chase.
The look on his face sharpens up, twists into concentration and the same old determination he always had, as he gives way to speed, zipping right down the direction where he saw the old man go to. He ignores the startled voice that called out after him, doesn't even slow down when he races up the stairs, skipping steps along the way. There's a collision with an unsuspecting tourist that almost happens, but doesn't, because he narrowly avoids it by cutting right beside her and ending up right ahead. No time to excuse himself, just keep running and running and running, head all the way down the hallway, don't stop to appreciate the miscellaneous picture frames dotted all over the walls, and then slow down.
Freeze.
It's the only room at the end of the corridor. It has to be the one.
Two minibombs are in his hand by the time he's near the door, and he's attaching them to the wooden surface, already alive and ready to explode. Who cares if this alerts half the entire cruise ship; they already accounted for a situation like this. So he moves all the way back, three, two, one, tick tick BOOM, and he breaks into a sprint, a gun pulled out and ready, kicking what's left of the door away.
Smoke and embers greet him first, but soon enough, he can make out the outline of a man by the window. It's another kodak moment of the infamous Cologne Cathedral, and it looks as if the man's way too preoccupied with looking at it than worrying about the barrel that's now aimed at him. Gokudera doesn't know why he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, or why he even bothers to spit out, "Don't move," when it's clear that there'll be no fights involved.
"I knew you were coming for me," and this is where he finally gets another look at the old man's smile, and his kind eyes, tired eyes, for a split-second, seem almost regretful. "Please tell her I'm sorry-" He doesn't understand it, but somehow hearing that from the old man wrings out a reflexive reaction, two bullets exploding from the gun in his hand. The soft thud of the body as it falls on the carpeted floor seems louder than the gunshots echoing in his ears, and for a moment there, he stands still, both eyes trained on the puddle of blood.
Sorry? I'm sorry? What the hell is this man going on about? "... -dera!" Who was he talking about? Why did the old man ask him to do something like that? Sorry? What the fuck-
"Gokudera-"
Yamamoto's voice finally drags him right back into reality. He's looking at the other man with a dazed look in his eyes, as if waking up from a daytime dream with no real ending, no real anything. "What-?" as if he really has the luxury or time to ask something like that right now. He doesn't get an answer beyond a shake of Yamamoto's head, and then he feels himself being led away from the old man's room, another mad dash, but this time, it's for the way out.
There are people screaming everywhere now.
It's a wave of frantic movement, of gotta get out gotta be safe gotta stay alive. Both Yamamoto and Gokudera are lucky enough to be able to avoid the inevitable bottleneck traffic, but that's the least of their worries now. Or well, it's the least of his worries anyway.
The stunt Gokudera pulled back there is sure enough to attract some unwanted attention, the kind that has guns and bullets in their hands and only one thing in their minds-kill them both. Avenge the boss. Get revenge. Get even. It's a neverending cycle, and he knows this, he's sure of this, because that's the reason why they're both here in the first place. Long story short: an attack that wiped out the Vongola branch situated in Cologne, Germany was what prompted Gokudera to insist that he repay the favor personally. And Yamamoto being Yamamoto? There was no way he was letting Gokudera go here on his own.
But he never really expected something like this would happen, not when Gokudera had an elaborate plan laid out.
Every detail was mapped out, right down to how they were going to find the Twelfth Don, the escape route they were going to take, any emergency exits, back-up plans-it was the whole deal. But there was a slip-up; they didn't expect their target to actually talk to them. Yamamoto didn't see it coming, Gokudera realized it a few minutes later, and thanks to that, Gokudera chucked their whole plan out the window. Acted on his own, his gut instincts; didn't think straight, didn't think all the way through.
Now they're stuck with the mess that move left behind.
He can hear Gokudera curse beside him when there are suddenly people yelling, "Over there!", followed by the quick thuds of feet sprinting across the hallway. A glance back, and he sees that there are about four people on their tail, each armed with a different kind of gun, ready to-
"Shit, get down!"
All four guns start firing a barrage of bullets at them, and it's miracle they haven't been hit yet. Gokudera already has a few of his dynamite sticks sparking, but he doesn't throw them not until they turn left on this corner and-there they go. Three sticks are headed for their pursuers, and it's like clockwork. TickticktickBOOM. It's all smoke and flames, accompanied by the usual blast of hot air and the unmistakable screams of the four men that are pretty much dead and dying by now.
Yamamoto feels his stomach sink a little. If he had a choice, he wouldn't have resorted to creating a trail of dead bodies to make their escape, but he knows better than to stop Gokudera when the man was already engaged in a fight. He's experienced the consequences enough to let him know what will happen if he even tried. There would have been a goofy smile on his face by now too, if he actually had the time to reminisce right now.
They manage reach the flight of stairs that leads up to the deck with no further interruptions. Or so he thought. As soon as they take the first few steps, there are bullets raining down at them from above. Rounds from a machine gun, so they had to act fast and separately. When Gokudera moves away from him to distract their shooter, Yamamoto pulls out his own gun for the first time tonight. Instead of targeting the man's head or chest like Gokudera told him to so many times during the target practice they had before they went through with this mission, he goes lower and aims for making the man lose his grip on the machine gun, or making him duck for cover, or maybe even both. It doesn't really matter to him, as long as the man doesn't end up dead in the end. So he fires, just a single round, and it looks like that made the man crouch down, but the second he peeks his head back out, Gokudera manages to take him out with a single shot through and through to the forehead.
Yamamoto had to look away by then.
There are three more guys at the top of the stairs waiting for them. Gokudera lights three bombs, one for each of them, no one's left out, and with a flick of his wrist, the bombs' backsides fire up and they're heading straight for their targets like tiny torpedoes. All three hit their mark-no one had the chance to run away-and the smoke has already cleared up by the time Yamamoto and Gokudera reached the top.
The bomber is the first to exit through the door, but before Yamamoto's able to follow, a wheezing sound from the right catches his attention. Curious, or maybe he's just born morbid and maybe a little masochistic, he shifts his line of view to get a better look, and he immediately wishes he hadn't. The sound is coming from a head that's burned beyond recognition, and the body is still twitching, trying to move. It takes him a minute longer to realize that the wheezing isn't just random noise, but a last minute prayer struggling to get out.
"A-ave-ma-maria..." Look away, he's telling himself, look away and move. "-pi-piena di-grazia-" Look away, look away, don't listen, and just get the hell away from here. Move, move, move. It isn't right for him to linger any longer than he already has, so he finally tears his eyes away and runs after Gokudera.
The other man is already waiting for him off to the side, near the railings. An irritated glare is what he first sees when he's close enough, and he can't help but let an apologetic smile play on his lips. "Sorry," is all he says, because he doesn't think it's appropriate to share what went on back there-at least, not now. Not when they aren't in the clear yet.
Gokudera doesn't look satisfied. "Don't fucking lag behind, asshole."
"I know, I know."
They hear more footsteps and yelling coming from where they came out, so that's their signal. Both of them climb over the railings and jump, falling straight into the Rhine River with two medium splashes.
It's a cold rush of water, and Yamamoto can feel the pain shock him right through, like kind of being stunned and knocked out at the same time. For a moment, it's like he can't breathe, but his brain kicks into override gear and cancels out the panic. He's kicking toward the surface now, and once his head is out, he takes in a deep breath and starts swimming. Gokudera's ahead of him already, and suddenly, there's a boyish spark in his eyes as he tries to beat the other man to where their speedboat is moored. It burns even brighter when Gokudera follows suit and swims faster-it's just like back when they were young, when they didn't do things like what they just did right now. For a moment there, they were able to let go.
But it's over the minute they got on the speedboat.
It doesn't take Gokudera too long to get it started. In the next few minutes, the motor's already humming, and they're headed for their designated pick-up point so they could be sent back home. A mission accomplished, but Yamamoto isn't too happy. Gokudera doesn't look too happy either.
It's an odd sort of vindictiveness, to try to discard every memory related to what they did and just keep themselves trapped in the present. This is more of Yamamoto's thing, but Gokudera finds himself more at ease when he just doesn't bother to remember. Even the silence that stretches out in between them is welcomed, but it doesn't last too long. It never does.
"That person, before he died, he started praying-"
Gokudera only snorts, but the tone in his voice isn't derisive, "That's why it took you so long to get to the deck? You stood there and watched him?"
"I looked away," and there's a sigh mixed in with these words, "It didn't feel right."
There's another stretch of silence, but it's punctuated by the harsh wind that clawed at their faces. It's getting colder, and maybe they should have taken a few seconds to dry themselves off a little, but there's no time now. No time to waste. It's way past quarter to one, so they're running a little late, but at least it's a straight path from where they are now. Just follow the Rhine up North, find two red lights, and-
"She'll never see her dad again."
The look on Yamamoto's face is solemn, quiet, and Gokudera finds himself hating the other man every time he sees it. Yes, ten years was long enough for him to get used to the annoying, oblivious baseball freak he always was; no, three years-especially after the Tenth's death-wasn't enough time to get used to the changes, the newly added expressions. He'd take the goofy smiles and the obnoxious back pounds over this any day.
"Think she'll hate us?"
A shrug. "That's how things work."
Yamamoto glances at him, mouth open, ready to say something, but nothing comes out. This whole thing-they did everything all for the sake of revenge-and while Yamamoto didn't directly kill anyone, he still feels a little responsible. Should have found another way, could have convinced Gokudera to back out of this, to run away before they got sucked right back in the cycle. But he didn't. And maybe it's turning him inside-out.
"This isn't going to stop anything," he finally says, but there's nothing backing it up.
Gokudera tilts his head down a little. There's a split-second where he looks almost sad, but it's gone the next moment. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even-" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "-it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."
And there's no arguing with that.
The next time someone speaks, it's Yamamoto again, but only because Gokudera suddenly changes their course. They're heading the wrong way.
"What are you doing-?"
"You wanted to know if she'll hate us, right?" Yamamoto only looks at him with a question mark written all over his face, so Gokudera keeps talking, keeps his hand steady on the wheel as he steered the boat to the nearest dock. "We'll know when we see her." He doesn't get an answer, doesn't need one, because the confused look on Yamamoto's face is enough. Truth be told, he doesn't really know where the hell they're going this time, but he figures it's better to worry about that later when-
"Why?"
Gokudera finally looks at him with kind eyes, tired eyes, and there's a smile on his face, "I have to tell her I'm sorry."
And Yamamoto could only smile back.
title. In Danger Of.
genre. General/Action.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth; bit of blood and death.
wordcount. 3923.
notes. Requested by genkitozuku. This prolly wasn't what you had in mind when you prompted me with cologne. Also, it's written in a different style -- tell me if it works? I personally don't think I'll be writing this way again, but I dunno, haha. LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN TOO WTF. Also, many thanks to the people who listened to me whine/bitch/moan about this the entire time I was writing it. You know who you are! ♥♥♥
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even-" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "-it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."
PG13 | COLOGNE | 3923
It's the end of yesterday, and the start of tomorrow. The clock ticks right into the countdown seconds of twelve midnight, ten, nine, eight, seven-wait. There's a heartbeat, and it skips a few chords; it's like learning how to believe all over again, because there it is. Illuminated by a green glow, it's haunting; near ghastly, but the faint traces of white light make it look almost ethereal, surreal-unreal. Fine detail is lost, but he can't miss the traceried windows, the pointed arches, the twin spires, and the majestic façade it's all about. It's a stairway to heaven, to a god that might exist and might not at the same time.
He can't help but put a palm on top of his heart, to feel it beating, feel it pounding, feel it stop, because in that one moment, that one second right after twelve, time freezes. It freezes, because the moving picture frame in front of his eyes demanded complete attention, no distractions, but he's fine with that. He'll comply with that. Anything to further the appreciation of what he deems to be the pinnacle of art, of faith, of believing way too much.
12:02AM, and that moment
(come back please come back-)
slips away. Just like that.
The fifty-seven year old man releases the breath he's been holding; it got caught up in his throat, caught up in that sixty-second private film of man-made beauty. He knows it's all a fabrication, an imitation copy of what it's like to be beautiful, but his kind eyes, tired eyes, love it all the same. Enjoys it, lives for it. Because eventually you learn to cherish perfection in any shape, way, or form, and you come to realize that there's nothing wrong with lying to yourself every now and then.
He does it everyday.
He's doing it right now, and as much as he would like/love to stop pretending, he can't, he wouldn't. He won't. Not when tonight and today is the start of a better-brighter-happy tomorrow, when everyone refuses to be fast asleep, in exchange for a few hours of made-up pleasantry, of I'm okay, we're okay, nothing's wrong, and everything's just fine. It always had been, it always will be-but the man knew better, knows better, because it's only been a week since they received a rumor (another fabrication, or maybe it's a well-thought out truth? a lie?), news that told them they've been infiltrated, betrayed.
But who? is the question on everyone's lips. Why? is the question on everyone's minds. How? is the question they don't want to ask.
"Some are better left unanswered," he remembers himself saying, to a young girl in his arms with kind eyes, tired eyes just like his own. The waves of her black hair got tangled in his fingertips as he tried to tame it; they curled, and twirled, and felt alive. And for that brief period in time, when she cuddled up even closer, put her ear to his heart so that she could listen to the b-b-beating of his chest and ribs, he didn't have to lie to himself. She was perfection coinciding with beauty right there and then.
Suddenly, there's an ache, the kind you associate with a left arm going numb, but it's not enough to kill, just enough to make him miss the feeling of hugging her close, of knowing that she's just a bedroom away from where he usually sleeps. But right now, the inane chatter that bubbles throughout the whole room finally tears him away from his own little world; it makes him avert his eyes from the glass window to what's always been around him.
It's a splash of red and gold with wood littered all around, and the floor is made out of the finest marble the world has to offer. Curtains of crush velvet drape from the ceiling, all the way to the floor; they're almost too soft to touch. A string quartet is off to the side, playing music that only adds up to the opulent atmosphere that already has the entire crowd and place in a trance-like grip. A quiet sort of lull, of relaxation, of hello, good evening, would you like to dance tonight? It amuses him, to say the least, that a lot of people are still up at this hour, but then again, he's always known this was going to be the case-
"So what do you feel like doing now?" It catches his attention, because the words are uttered by a voice he hasn't heard before; it's rough, a bit deep, but not too much, and it's not quite old, not quite young. He turns to look, spots them, sees them, and starts smiling.
There's a laugh, short and genuine. The answer is spoken with an accent, so he surmises the Italian language isn't this one's mother tongue.
"I feel like eating sushi, haha."
The man watches on as the shorter of the two snorts and shoots a mildly incredulous look at the one beside him. He can tell that he's not too happy with the answer he's received. "-you're in Germany and you want to eat sushi?!" An odd choice of food, the man thinks to himself, but the smile never leaves his face. He knows, he understands, what this all means now.
It all happens in a quick heartbeat, one stride, two strides, three, and he's already greeting them with a smile, gesturing with his right hand over to the buffet table that's full of untouched delicacies. "Have you tried the apple cake yet?" He takes note of the confused look on their faces, and almost laughs. Young people these days-was it wrong for an old man to want to start up a conversation now? Regardless, he goes on, "You simply must if you haven't. The cinnamon brings out a sweetness you would never be able to taste if you eat an apple alone." And this is something he adds as an afterthought, a second doubt, "It's my daughter's favorite."
There's an awkward silence, and it's the one with the scar on his chin that answers his smile with one of his own, "Thanks. We'll keep that in mind."
"My pleasure," his face looks a little sadder now, "Now if you'll excuse me-" There's no explanation that follows, but with a nod of his head, he turns around and takes his leave. His room is only a few minutes away from the ballroom, but the staircase that leads to the right floor made the travel seem longer than it is. Maybe it's just his imagination, or maybe it's him doing it on purpose. It's childish, too hopeful, but he knows, he knows he can't stretch out the distance between himself and the inevitable for way too long.
His mind is racing, and his heart beats that much faster. The smile he continues to wear slowly fades into a smaller one, and it doesn't even disappear when he clicks his door open and shuts it closed.
"That was a pretty interesting guy."
He hears it like an offhand comment, a second thought thrown into the table long after the man has retreated from them. Click, click, click, and there's a cigarette burning in between his lips. He's getting stares from the nearby guests, in disbelief, as if what he's doing is the most obscene thing anyone could do-young people these days, where are your manners? manners? fuck manners-but he ignores them, pretends not to notice. The last thing he wants to waste a few precious seconds on is pleasing a society that's built on pretension, a society that reminds him of what it used to be like back when it was all about doing what you didn't want to do just so someone wouldn't lose face.
Black and white keys, and an out of tune high G-a distant memory that's trying its best to break out of the corner it's trapped in, but he doesn't let it, won't let it, not when he has more important things to fuss about.
"I don't see what's so interesting about some old man-" here, he flicks the stray ashes away and breathes out the excess smoke "-besides, we're supposed to be looking out for the 'Ndrangheta Don. Don't get so careless, baseball freak." It almost comes out as a growl, a low order, but he keeps his temper in check. It's not really the time to revert back to strangling a guy whose laugh still annoys him, even if it's all for different reasons now. Scowling even more, he sends one last glance at where the old man disappeared to, and-
And then it's like a slow trainwreck to realization.
Fuuta's voice crashes inside his head (Twelfth Generation Don, Gokudera-nii; he's a kind gentleman, cherishes his famiglia, especially his daughter, so I don't see why you have to resort to something like this-), and all he can think of is shit, shit, shit, he let the target slip right through their fingers. A careless mistake, and he's not going to let himself let this go so easily, but right now, he's got someone to find, someone to chase.
The look on his face sharpens up, twists into concentration and the same old determination he always had, as he gives way to speed, zipping right down the direction where he saw the old man go to. He ignores the startled voice that called out after him, doesn't even slow down when he races up the stairs, skipping steps along the way. There's a collision with an unsuspecting tourist that almost happens, but doesn't, because he narrowly avoids it by cutting right beside her and ending up right ahead. No time to excuse himself, just keep running and running and running, head all the way down the hallway, don't stop to appreciate the miscellaneous picture frames dotted all over the walls, and then slow down.
Freeze.
It's the only room at the end of the corridor. It has to be the one.
Two minibombs are in his hand by the time he's near the door, and he's attaching them to the wooden surface, already alive and ready to explode. Who cares if this alerts half the entire cruise ship; they already accounted for a situation like this. So he moves all the way back, three, two, one, tick tick BOOM, and he breaks into a sprint, a gun pulled out and ready, kicking what's left of the door away.
Smoke and embers greet him first, but soon enough, he can make out the outline of a man by the window. It's another kodak moment of the infamous Cologne Cathedral, and it looks as if the man's way too preoccupied with looking at it than worrying about the barrel that's now aimed at him. Gokudera doesn't know why he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, or why he even bothers to spit out, "Don't move," when it's clear that there'll be no fights involved.
"I knew you were coming for me," and this is where he finally gets another look at the old man's smile, and his kind eyes, tired eyes, for a split-second, seem almost regretful. "Please tell her I'm sorry-" He doesn't understand it, but somehow hearing that from the old man wrings out a reflexive reaction, two bullets exploding from the gun in his hand. The soft thud of the body as it falls on the carpeted floor seems louder than the gunshots echoing in his ears, and for a moment there, he stands still, both eyes trained on the puddle of blood.
Sorry? I'm sorry? What the hell is this man going on about? "... -dera!" Who was he talking about? Why did the old man ask him to do something like that? Sorry? What the fuck-
"Gokudera-"
Yamamoto's voice finally drags him right back into reality. He's looking at the other man with a dazed look in his eyes, as if waking up from a daytime dream with no real ending, no real anything. "What-?" as if he really has the luxury or time to ask something like that right now. He doesn't get an answer beyond a shake of Yamamoto's head, and then he feels himself being led away from the old man's room, another mad dash, but this time, it's for the way out.
There are people screaming everywhere now.
It's a wave of frantic movement, of gotta get out gotta be safe gotta stay alive. Both Yamamoto and Gokudera are lucky enough to be able to avoid the inevitable bottleneck traffic, but that's the least of their worries now. Or well, it's the least of his worries anyway.
The stunt Gokudera pulled back there is sure enough to attract some unwanted attention, the kind that has guns and bullets in their hands and only one thing in their minds-kill them both. Avenge the boss. Get revenge. Get even. It's a neverending cycle, and he knows this, he's sure of this, because that's the reason why they're both here in the first place. Long story short: an attack that wiped out the Vongola branch situated in Cologne, Germany was what prompted Gokudera to insist that he repay the favor personally. And Yamamoto being Yamamoto? There was no way he was letting Gokudera go here on his own.
But he never really expected something like this would happen, not when Gokudera had an elaborate plan laid out.
Every detail was mapped out, right down to how they were going to find the Twelfth Don, the escape route they were going to take, any emergency exits, back-up plans-it was the whole deal. But there was a slip-up; they didn't expect their target to actually talk to them. Yamamoto didn't see it coming, Gokudera realized it a few minutes later, and thanks to that, Gokudera chucked their whole plan out the window. Acted on his own, his gut instincts; didn't think straight, didn't think all the way through.
Now they're stuck with the mess that move left behind.
He can hear Gokudera curse beside him when there are suddenly people yelling, "Over there!", followed by the quick thuds of feet sprinting across the hallway. A glance back, and he sees that there are about four people on their tail, each armed with a different kind of gun, ready to-
"Shit, get down!"
All four guns start firing a barrage of bullets at them, and it's miracle they haven't been hit yet. Gokudera already has a few of his dynamite sticks sparking, but he doesn't throw them not until they turn left on this corner and-there they go. Three sticks are headed for their pursuers, and it's like clockwork. TickticktickBOOM. It's all smoke and flames, accompanied by the usual blast of hot air and the unmistakable screams of the four men that are pretty much dead and dying by now.
Yamamoto feels his stomach sink a little. If he had a choice, he wouldn't have resorted to creating a trail of dead bodies to make their escape, but he knows better than to stop Gokudera when the man was already engaged in a fight. He's experienced the consequences enough to let him know what will happen if he even tried. There would have been a goofy smile on his face by now too, if he actually had the time to reminisce right now.
They manage reach the flight of stairs that leads up to the deck with no further interruptions. Or so he thought. As soon as they take the first few steps, there are bullets raining down at them from above. Rounds from a machine gun, so they had to act fast and separately. When Gokudera moves away from him to distract their shooter, Yamamoto pulls out his own gun for the first time tonight. Instead of targeting the man's head or chest like Gokudera told him to so many times during the target practice they had before they went through with this mission, he goes lower and aims for making the man lose his grip on the machine gun, or making him duck for cover, or maybe even both. It doesn't really matter to him, as long as the man doesn't end up dead in the end. So he fires, just a single round, and it looks like that made the man crouch down, but the second he peeks his head back out, Gokudera manages to take him out with a single shot through and through to the forehead.
Yamamoto had to look away by then.
There are three more guys at the top of the stairs waiting for them. Gokudera lights three bombs, one for each of them, no one's left out, and with a flick of his wrist, the bombs' backsides fire up and they're heading straight for their targets like tiny torpedoes. All three hit their mark-no one had the chance to run away-and the smoke has already cleared up by the time Yamamoto and Gokudera reached the top.
The bomber is the first to exit through the door, but before Yamamoto's able to follow, a wheezing sound from the right catches his attention. Curious, or maybe he's just born morbid and maybe a little masochistic, he shifts his line of view to get a better look, and he immediately wishes he hadn't. The sound is coming from a head that's burned beyond recognition, and the body is still twitching, trying to move. It takes him a minute longer to realize that the wheezing isn't just random noise, but a last minute prayer struggling to get out.
"A-ave-ma-maria..." Look away, he's telling himself, look away and move. "-pi-piena di-grazia-" Look away, look away, don't listen, and just get the hell away from here. Move, move, move. It isn't right for him to linger any longer than he already has, so he finally tears his eyes away and runs after Gokudera.
The other man is already waiting for him off to the side, near the railings. An irritated glare is what he first sees when he's close enough, and he can't help but let an apologetic smile play on his lips. "Sorry," is all he says, because he doesn't think it's appropriate to share what went on back there-at least, not now. Not when they aren't in the clear yet.
Gokudera doesn't look satisfied. "Don't fucking lag behind, asshole."
"I know, I know."
They hear more footsteps and yelling coming from where they came out, so that's their signal. Both of them climb over the railings and jump, falling straight into the Rhine River with two medium splashes.
It's a cold rush of water, and Yamamoto can feel the pain shock him right through, like kind of being stunned and knocked out at the same time. For a moment, it's like he can't breathe, but his brain kicks into override gear and cancels out the panic. He's kicking toward the surface now, and once his head is out, he takes in a deep breath and starts swimming. Gokudera's ahead of him already, and suddenly, there's a boyish spark in his eyes as he tries to beat the other man to where their speedboat is moored. It burns even brighter when Gokudera follows suit and swims faster-it's just like back when they were young, when they didn't do things like what they just did right now. For a moment there, they were able to let go.
But it's over the minute they got on the speedboat.
It doesn't take Gokudera too long to get it started. In the next few minutes, the motor's already humming, and they're headed for their designated pick-up point so they could be sent back home. A mission accomplished, but Yamamoto isn't too happy. Gokudera doesn't look too happy either.
It's an odd sort of vindictiveness, to try to discard every memory related to what they did and just keep themselves trapped in the present. This is more of Yamamoto's thing, but Gokudera finds himself more at ease when he just doesn't bother to remember. Even the silence that stretches out in between them is welcomed, but it doesn't last too long. It never does.
"That person, before he died, he started praying-"
Gokudera only snorts, but the tone in his voice isn't derisive, "That's why it took you so long to get to the deck? You stood there and watched him?"
"I looked away," and there's a sigh mixed in with these words, "It didn't feel right."
There's another stretch of silence, but it's punctuated by the harsh wind that clawed at their faces. It's getting colder, and maybe they should have taken a few seconds to dry themselves off a little, but there's no time now. No time to waste. It's way past quarter to one, so they're running a little late, but at least it's a straight path from where they are now. Just follow the Rhine up North, find two red lights, and-
"She'll never see her dad again."
The look on Yamamoto's face is solemn, quiet, and Gokudera finds himself hating the other man every time he sees it. Yes, ten years was long enough for him to get used to the annoying, oblivious baseball freak he always was; no, three years-especially after the Tenth's death-wasn't enough time to get used to the changes, the newly added expressions. He'd take the goofy smiles and the obnoxious back pounds over this any day.
"Think she'll hate us?"
A shrug. "That's how things work."
Yamamoto glances at him, mouth open, ready to say something, but nothing comes out. This whole thing-they did everything all for the sake of revenge-and while Yamamoto didn't directly kill anyone, he still feels a little responsible. Should have found another way, could have convinced Gokudera to back out of this, to run away before they got sucked right back in the cycle. But he didn't. And maybe it's turning him inside-out.
"This isn't going to stop anything," he finally says, but there's nothing backing it up.
Gokudera tilts his head down a little. There's a split-second where he looks almost sad, but it's gone the next moment. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even-" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "-it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."
And there's no arguing with that.
The next time someone speaks, it's Yamamoto again, but only because Gokudera suddenly changes their course. They're heading the wrong way.
"What are you doing-?"
"You wanted to know if she'll hate us, right?" Yamamoto only looks at him with a question mark written all over his face, so Gokudera keeps talking, keeps his hand steady on the wheel as he steered the boat to the nearest dock. "We'll know when we see her." He doesn't get an answer, doesn't need one, because the confused look on Yamamoto's face is enough. Truth be told, he doesn't really know where the hell they're going this time, but he figures it's better to worry about that later when-
"Why?"
Gokudera finally looks at him with kind eyes, tired eyes, and there's a smile on his face, "I have to tell her I'm sorry."
And Yamamoto could only smile back.
title. In Danger Of.
genre. General/Action.
rating. PG13.
characters. Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi; Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. Watch out for Gokudera's mouth; bit of blood and death.
wordcount. 3923.
notes. Requested by genkitozuku. This prolly wasn't what you had in mind when you prompted me with cologne. Also, it's written in a different style -- tell me if it works? I personally don't think I'll be writing this way again, but I dunno, haha. LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN TOO WTF. Also, many thanks to the people who listened to me whine/bitch/moan about this the entire time I was writing it. You know who you are! ♥♥♥
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. "That's never been the point. Revenge? It's never been about getting even-" a pause, but he doesn't know what for "-it's an obligation. We do it because we have to. Fuck what we think, what we want."