Fic: 3 Dates (sort of)
Title: 3 Dates
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 480
Excerpt: “Sakura-viewing, Gokudera discovers, is actually just an excuse for the Japanese to get drunk on lots and lots of sake and roll around on tatami mats while the sky upends a bucket of pink-white petals.”
1. Gokudera peers down at the specks on the playing field as the commentator blares offensively, tilting his head and squinting a bit, but - no, he still can’t see what’s so damned fascinating about it. Baseball. They’re watching the game from so high up in the bleachers they might as well be in Russia and there’s nothing but raucously red and blue caps and these ridiculous, giant foam fingers as far as the eye can see. And Yamamoto of course: the biggest baseball idiot of them all. Yamamoto, who leans forward in his seat, hollers and whistles and bounces like a squirrel that’s spotted nuts. Gokudera still can’t quite believe that they bought tickets to see this, flew halfway across the world to America and if there was going to be any plane-catching involved, surely they’d be off to Italy? Or Paris, even? Instead he’s listening to Yamamoto shout encouragement in appalling English that makes him shrink in his uncomfortable, plastic chair.
“Isn’t this fun?” Yamamoto beams during the third inning. Gokudera hits him with the stupid finger.
2. Sakura-viewing, Gokudera discovers, is actually just an excuse for the Japanese to get drunk on lots and lots of sake and roll around on tatami mats while the sky upends a bucket of pink-white petals. Tsuna is wringing his hands and surveying the damage, probably wondering why he suggested this in the first place. Sasagawa, for all intents and purposes, is utterly wasted. He and Bianchi are lying in a tangled heap that Gokudera prefers not to think about. Further away, Dino attempts to nurse Hibari, coiled dazedly in the shade, swiping his tonfas like a lazy viper and muttering about herbivores.
Gokudera seeks out the baseball freak to exchange an incredulous look, only to find him draped out languorously in his coffee-coloured yukata. Judging by the sound of the bottle dangling from his fingertips and the healthy flush across his cheeks, the idiot has no problems with this practice whatsoever.
3. Yamamoto watches him stand mindlessly in the downpour as it pulls his hair straight and bleeds it black. For a split second, the swordsman can see what a beautiful woman Gokudera’s mother must have been. True to natural phenomenon, since storms bring rain, Yamamoto leaves the windowside to join his partner, brandishing his yellow umbrella like a lance.
Later, a limp and half-naked Gokudera will curl up beside the heater, jeans flung haphazardly over the top to dry. The carpet will be wet in places as the guardian automatically migrates to dryer areas in his sleep. Hair fluffed into a silver mane, dead to the world, he’ll be irritable in the morning, more than prepared to throw an epic fit should his house still be occupied. Yamamoto rolls up his sleeves with a tolerant smile and sets off to forage in the cupboards. He is nothing if not accommodating.
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 480
Excerpt: “Sakura-viewing, Gokudera discovers, is actually just an excuse for the Japanese to get drunk on lots and lots of sake and roll around on tatami mats while the sky upends a bucket of pink-white petals.”
1. Gokudera peers down at the specks on the playing field as the commentator blares offensively, tilting his head and squinting a bit, but - no, he still can’t see what’s so damned fascinating about it. Baseball. They’re watching the game from so high up in the bleachers they might as well be in Russia and there’s nothing but raucously red and blue caps and these ridiculous, giant foam fingers as far as the eye can see. And Yamamoto of course: the biggest baseball idiot of them all. Yamamoto, who leans forward in his seat, hollers and whistles and bounces like a squirrel that’s spotted nuts. Gokudera still can’t quite believe that they bought tickets to see this, flew halfway across the world to America and if there was going to be any plane-catching involved, surely they’d be off to Italy? Or Paris, even? Instead he’s listening to Yamamoto shout encouragement in appalling English that makes him shrink in his uncomfortable, plastic chair.
“Isn’t this fun?” Yamamoto beams during the third inning. Gokudera hits him with the stupid finger.
2. Sakura-viewing, Gokudera discovers, is actually just an excuse for the Japanese to get drunk on lots and lots of sake and roll around on tatami mats while the sky upends a bucket of pink-white petals. Tsuna is wringing his hands and surveying the damage, probably wondering why he suggested this in the first place. Sasagawa, for all intents and purposes, is utterly wasted. He and Bianchi are lying in a tangled heap that Gokudera prefers not to think about. Further away, Dino attempts to nurse Hibari, coiled dazedly in the shade, swiping his tonfas like a lazy viper and muttering about herbivores.
Gokudera seeks out the baseball freak to exchange an incredulous look, only to find him draped out languorously in his coffee-coloured yukata. Judging by the sound of the bottle dangling from his fingertips and the healthy flush across his cheeks, the idiot has no problems with this practice whatsoever.
3. Yamamoto watches him stand mindlessly in the downpour as it pulls his hair straight and bleeds it black. For a split second, the swordsman can see what a beautiful woman Gokudera’s mother must have been. True to natural phenomenon, since storms bring rain, Yamamoto leaves the windowside to join his partner, brandishing his yellow umbrella like a lance.
Later, a limp and half-naked Gokudera will curl up beside the heater, jeans flung haphazardly over the top to dry. The carpet will be wet in places as the guardian automatically migrates to dryer areas in his sleep. Hair fluffed into a silver mane, dead to the world, he’ll be irritable in the morning, more than prepared to throw an epic fit should his house still be occupied. Yamamoto rolls up his sleeves with a tolerant smile and sets off to forage in the cupboards. He is nothing if not accommodating.