mushin (無心)

Light Skins the Mystery from Everything

2008-05-14T07:35:58Z

Was trying to come up with ideas for minibang and this happened instead. OTL Next on the agenda really has to be study but asdfklsjf what is this miraculous 14th episode of Baccano! about? I thought the series was over but egads I'm all for a second seasonnnn. 3radicated, have you seen it yet? Anyone else into Baccano!?!

Title: Intimacy Along a Wire
Characters/Pairing: Reborn/Lambo, Gokudera
Word Count: 353
Excerpt: "Like Tsuna, there is something about Lambo that can't be trusted to save itself."

The sink is a titanium bar for Gokudera to slouch against, countering the burn of new wounds with metal and the faithful end of his cigarette. Water leaks slowly from the tap, every drop farewell to halcyon days and he hasn't half the inclination to reach behind and wrench it off. This is supposed to be repose. Gather all the chipped marbles and dump them into a glass jar; he'll pretend he never spilled them and everything is a little more cracked, but just so.

...Little, like Lambo who can’t grow up fast enough; hair a touch less explosive, erratic and fourteen with a man-angle to his jaw but tears as plentiful and undeserved as ever. He's sitting at the table ripping into the Cavallone’s Belgium chocolates. 'Liquor' pronounces the gilded lettering but a third of the box is gone, there's caramel at the edges of his mouth and Reborn's eyes linger. Gokudera is dispatched as soon as the amused sound is wrung out of him, ribs sore.

"If you have time to laugh, you should be outside, killing."

"Get on with it, old man."

»

They'd warned him to beware of women who were small and beautiful; they had a way of sweetening your heart until it was ripe for the plucking. Bianchi is commendable, Romeo a good example, and sentimentality is an obstacle long overcome. But no one warned for this: distraction sashaying in ridiculous cow-print pyjamas, an idiot who used to bawl when it stormed but couldn't be held unless you were up to the elbows in rubber gloves. Unacceptable.

Always eating, dropping little erotic noises like crumbs, and Reborn can think of nothing else, can't decide whether he wants to backhand the child across the jaw or kiss the feeling from his milk-splashed chin. Like Tsuna, there is something about Lambo that can't be trusted to save itself; he clings stupidly to his innocence with those lily-white fingers and quivering smile, hands too full to pull the trigger.

Tug down the brim of the fedora and shield your eyes from the world. Everything can be conquered through will, even love.

Fic: Haze

2008-04-26T14:45:44Z

Hello to milkfed and neneno. ♥ Sorry to be throwing you into the angstpot by way of introduction but ahaha, ~~purple prose and emo is what I'm made of~~ I just can't help myself when it comes to Reborn.

Speaking of:

GAMMA: I'm gonna show you the door to heaven bb~

TRUFAX.

Title: Haze
Characters/Pairing: Yamamoto, Gokudera. Gen.
Word Count: 346
Excerpt: "It's on the third day that he stumbles into Gokudera's territory to discover him hiccuping into the dining table."

He finds, if he thinks too hard about it, it's an easy thing to be defeated by life.

Drawing straws with invisible hands and rooms are divided; a week to reboot the system without electricity. It’s a week they can’t afford, a courtesy, a lapse, and there's no doubt in anyone's mind that the end is in sight, grisly and nebulous. For now, the yellow light blinks innocuously - schedules pushed back like plugging holes in dams - and his traitor of a body urges sleep.

Groggy, peeling, it’s on the third day that he stumbles into Gokudera's territory to discover him hiccuping into the dining table. "What," and he’s a stranger, unshaven and trembling under the electric glow, "If there are insects?"

Coffins and worms and they’re all on the same trail of thought, but Gokudera's still there, perfectly groomed and knee-deep in mud. Cradling magnolias, he'd chosen a blue, cloudless morning even though rain would have provided more cover, but no one could begrudge him a funeral or recall a time when they were less concerned about trying not to die.

Slosh of liquid; the bottle is shaken with vigour. Gokudera lifts his mussed head (everything's an effort) and squints into the neck. There are puddles and butt-ends all over the table. Reborn is going to be pissed, is Yamamoto's first thought, but oh, right, you can't be pissed when you're dead, and doesn’t it seem like everyone's dead these days? He clutches his head as if he means to squeeze himself awake, and wonders who the real drunk is.

There’s no protest when he hauls Gokudera off the chair, just a single, ragged sob that clings clumsily to his body and won’t let him alone.

"Come on," he murmurs, half-hushing, half-consoling, and he's never done this before, never had the chance to learn the trick of it, soothing friends who've managed to get themselves mind-blowingly wasted in the way teenagers are supposed to.

Hours later, Gokudera is sleeping restlessly, and it occurs to him; phenomenal, that there is still so much to lose.

Guessing Meme

2008-04-23T13:22:02Z

Tagged by 3radicated,

- Post a list of 20 15 fandoms.
- Have your friends list guess your favorite character from each one.
- When guessed, bold the line, include the character name, and write a sentence about why you like that character. [Uh, most likely it'll end up being more like a paragraph. XD]

1. Amatsuki - HEIHACHI [guessed by aiuta]
Heihachi’s a monk. He has a simple, peaceful quality to him and big, big eyes ~~that are kind of creepy~~. But he’s the sweetest thing and asdfkjsd such an adorable smile. He also makes me laugh. 'Cause he’s bald [and you probably all think I’m crazy because as if Amatsuki doesn’t have the hottest men to ever hot.]

2. Katekyo Hitman Reborn! - GOKUDERA HAYATO [guessed by icedcandy]
I like my boys with issues. Gokudera is the half-Italian, bastard son of a mafia boss; fiercely loyal, smart, too altruistic for his own good, insecure hence prickly as a porcupine and incredibly pretty to boot. What's not to love? |D

3. Baccano!

4. D.Gray-man - TYKI MIKK [guessed by 3radicated]
One of those deliciously evil villains that you hope will stick around forever and if they must be defeated, it had better be an epic, epic battle/death. He’s gorgeous. His flip, 'white,' personality is also a very likeable goofball. <3

5. Ookiku Furikabutte

6. Bleach - KIRA IZURU [guessed by makeste]
He's broody and bird-boned and looks like a strong wind will knock him over and at first glance I thought ah, it's the obedient puppy/masochist to Gin's sadist! except he surprised me by standing his ground against Hinamori and Matsumoto. He has an edge; conflicted and guilty, he won't back down once he's got his mind set on something even against his friends. And Wabisuke's ability really suits him - understated but still powerful. ♥

7. One Piece - RORONOA ZORO [guessed by makeste]
Er, I've noticed that I don't really go for 'manly' men. WTF. But Zoro's an exception. He's an unabashed pirate-hunter turned pirate, uses three swords, manages to fight with his guts spilling open, drinks like a horse, is sentimental and a man of his word. And he's such a guy. asdfklafl

8. Full Metal Alchemist - MAES HUGHES [guessed by neneno]
I love that he's so obviously devoted to his family and to Roy, that he'll do whatever it takes to get the job done, knows how to be serious but isn't afraid to laugh. He's kind to the Elrics, supports his friend without question a-and is SPOILERED because sakjdfahglksdf. ;___;

9. Nabari no Ou - ROKUJOU MIHARU [guessed by 3radicated]
Uke Powers Of DOOM. And he's not afraid to use them either.

10. Prince of Tennis

11. Harry Potter - REMUS LUPIN [guessed by makeste]
Bookish older man. Werewolf. Overthinker. ~~Gay for Sirius.~~ I like the way fandom represents him and the nifty way he's introduced and developed in the third book. There's just something tragic about the role he plays in Rowling's storyline.

12. Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle - FAI D. FLUORITE [guessed by aiuta and icedcandy]
Deceptively fragile-looking, kickass, blonde mage with a carefully carefree outlook on life. I like his mask, his sadness, his affection for all his travelling companions ~~and the fact that he's pedo for Kurogane.~~

13. Phoenix Wright - MILES EDGEWORTH [guessed by makeste]
He's pompous and direct in court, sips English tea and wears a cravat + unmistakably pink suit, but at the same time he's awkward and unconvinced of his own self-worth. I find him endearing. ~~I also can't stop thinking about him in that frilly maid's dress. xD~~

14. Death Note - L [guessed by makeste]
To be honest, I probably like L and Raito equally. Even though they're both very different, I admire their braiiins most. But I guess as intriguing as Raito's god complex is, I'm more amused by L's total disregard for social norms. And his weakness for cake. ^^;

15. Darker than Black - HEI [guessed by 3radicated and aiuta]
I like Hei, both his undercover and work modes. His alias is a gentle foreign student who extracts meals from hapless women ~~with his earnest good looks~~ and then there's the cold-blooded, murdering side too. I like that his morals are ambiguous and wholly his own.

Fic: Growing Pains

2008-04-22T13:56:25Z

5927. Uh, before my fellow 8059 fans run for the hills, it's really quite tame. Mostly introspection because I fail and just can't get my head around Gokudera topping that particular relationship. But TYL!2759 I could actually believe (if anyone wants to point me in the right direction? I think I've only read one before).

Title: Growing Pains
Characters/Pairings: Gokudera/Tsuna
Word Count: 329. Another short one.
Excerpt: "If there’s anything Gokudera is heir to, it’s the knowledge that love and the wrong person can really screw you over."

He’s not sure why there’s no hot water. The detergent is bubbling and frothy and like ice on his hands; dark blue veins crawl up his arms and he pulls out the plug – a little more violent than strictly necessary – watches water drain out of the sink like his feelings won’t.

He craves Tenth, is the epiphany. Not healthy, subordinate, right-hand love. Craving, like all good and wholesome things, a sliced-up pizza cooked just so, gourmet and deep-pan with mozzarella and extra olives, and his own share never feels like enough. Tsuna’s affections are split five, six, a hundred ways because his heart is just that big and Gokudera isn't used to being greedy, isn't sure what to do about it so he licks his fingers and savours each bite and pretends he's satisfied.

This, he thinks, is the sort of useful thing they should teach in school; worksheets, pages of multiple-choice (What is needed for love? A: No hesitation. B: Patience. C: Loyalty. D:) – and he doesn’t know any more. They say all Italians are romantic. One more item on his list of failures.

And look at him, moping like an idiot. He’s lucky, lucky, lucky because Tenth is Tenth and if there’s anything Gokudera is heir to, it’s the knowledge that love and the wrong person can really screw you over.

It’s just – jealousy; the name of the too-tight burn in his chest he hadn’t been able to place before and there’s no reason for it; it’s not logical because all the dumb bastard knows is baseball and what is there to be jealous of but he manages to make Tenth laugh anyway, and so whenever Gokudera sees them walking close together it’s like ants are marching up his spine.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous as dampness that refuses to leave his fingers, cars derailing at impossible locations and Shamal who steps out of women like underwear.

Love? What’s love? It’s all as easy as a change of clothes.

Fic: Trespasser

2008-04-18T10:52:12Z

They will try to tell you that your toast is burnt, that your top is too bright, that you smile too much or dream too much and this is the part where you say STFU, I’ll do whatever I please. But only sometimes, because they have a dozen nasty words to call someone like you and your skin is not as thick as you’d like.

I’m craving sesame biscuits. I also think I may have flunked accounting.

Anyway, I've had a while to mope. This is something I scribbled today. It’s been ages since I've posted fic. It's been ages since I've posted anything. My brain is mushified.

Title: Trespasser
Characters/Pairing: Shamal, Gokudera
Word Count: 320. Yes. So short that I’m too embarrassed to cross-post. |D
Excerpt: "Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks."

From a poltergeist, he grew into this, a creature swimming in the dark, grooved together like a sloppy prototype. He gets caught on door handles, the curse of a badly knitted scarf, can't slide into the slots of Normal and Real World no matter how much engine oil he uses. Programmed with obsolete commands, it's not a question of mafia or liaisons (they call them 'relationships' here); he is just not sure how to live.

The plane trip allots fifteen hours to the slide between one reality and the next, a knife on a string. He is still parentless, clumsy tongued, but Shamal's address is crumpled in his fist. A gain. Pockets filled with stolen cash, illicit funds - no great loss if the doctor is not in, he tells himself, knock, knock, knocking – can't explain away the hot knot in his chest at the sight of that ugly mug, or tears inexcusable from a thirteen-year-old boy. It's jet lag, he says, and Shamal snorts, drags him in by the hair, gruff and unbearably gentle.

It is often quiet. He grows accustomed to the various textures of bachelor food, explores the dials on the washing machine and does as much cleaning as he is able, because there's owing and then there's owing and it's nothing to do with the unfurling of unease in his belly when Shamal is gone for weeks on end. In his spare time, he watches oddly-coloured pigeons butt against the window of the apartment, wonders if Shamal feeds them and, inevitably, smokes.

What is killing like? What is sex like? Shamal smells of perfume as habitually as he smells of blood; there is always tobacco, and Gokudera never asks. He is not certain how far the apple falls from the tree, unsettled by the swirling, squalid state of his thoughts.

Shamal, Shamal, I don't want to be like my father.

As always, there is no answer.

Hello, Mr Despair

2008-03-30T11:54:02Z

Late Tia is late. I‘m only just getting into the anime of last year (Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei, Darker than Black, Ghost Hound, Gurren Lagann) and there’s already a whole stack of stuff that’s being subbed for 2008 (Shigofumi, Soul Eater, Persona?), not to mention all the manga I’ve been meaning to catch up on - Bleach, I’m looking at you - and everything I’ve had sitting on the backburner. *doooom*

You know, I woke up today and decided I prefer Marmon to Mammon, inexplicably. And speaking of Reborn:

I can’t say it’s much of a surprise that Spanner – rescued? kidnapped? – Tsuna but I can say that it was marvelously executed. (This page? Killed me dead. DEAD, I SAY.) Spanner's far too pretty to be a non-recurring character; in fact, I don’t think Amano-sensei even has any of those. Recall Irie Shouichi’s cameo in chapter 1X and the Kokuyou gang and the Varia and the Cervello etc. etc.

Check out Spanner’s creepy ~~fanboy~~ *___* expression. I LOLED. It turns out he’s something of a ~~perv for Tsuna~~ Japanophile (Nipponphilist? I’m sure there’s a proper term for it, haha). And Ryohei is awesome as usual. In short? Great chapter.

PS. ricordi!!! I saw partly NSFW Xanxus/Squalo, and thought of you. XD

Fic: 16.5°C

2008-03-28T04:38:11Z

In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
The truth is I changed persons and tenses a couple of times before settling on second, present, so, haha, please tell me if you see anything odd. In relation to the title, 16.5 degrees is fairly chilly for the hotter months around here (I SPEAK NOT FOR THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN ICELAND).

Inspired by the above snippet from the poem As I Walked Out One Evening by Wystan Hugh Auden. For arrankaara because you are sweet and talented and asjksdjksl; drew me Gokuderaaa. <33

Title: 16.5°C
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 787
Excerpt: "Close quarters means sharing, even the things you’d rather keep to yourself – that last bit of disinfectant at the bottom of the bottle, toothpaste, nightmares, hope."

It’s summer, so you think the sudden rain may be disturbing Gokudera, even though it’s not entirely unwelcome, and cuts apart the slough of built-up heat and loss and blame. Blame shifts like water, sticks to you like sweat, and you do what you used to do when you were a child and someone sneezed on your arm; you reached for their clean shirt with vengeful, groping hands. (Look, the seasons are turning, oh, when will this ever end?)

But for the most part all of you remain unaffected, watching the clouds gather on Giannini’s high-resolution screens, as though the outside world were something from TV. No matter how its explosions rock your heart, your feet and body stay unmoved. This is how they live now. This is how to keep living. And hasn’t it worked so far? Haven’t they learned their lesson? (Tsuna, Tsuna, Tsuna.)

You have become something of a weatherman. Swift changes have Gokudera ill at ease; cold bouts bring low blood pressure, sleep that’s hard to wake from. If the air is cooler, crisper, Lambo is a bundle of static energy, not to be allowed near anything with a plug, especially the coffee-maker.

You need socks to navigate the concrete floors now, scrounging blankets from unlikely places, finding excuses to lean in and steal body heat, scratch Uri under the chin. Predictably, Gokudera’s feet remain bare, even as he hops about the base and curls his toes. No socks in July because July is supposed to be warm; you wonder who makes up these rules and why Gokudera bothers to follow them.

You think he may have inherited superstition from his long line of mafia forefathers. He sees importance in things he can’t predict - like sporadic showers, drops in temperature. Superstition and suspicion are close brothers after all, and no one can deny the use of the latter, not in this day and age, not without crossing their fingers. (Stick a needle in your eye; hope to die, to die, to die.) In some ways, it isn’t surprising. Gokudera’s need for order and absolute, systematic control rivals even Hibari’s. (You don’t really get it, but that’s not surprising either; Gokudera was always good at maths in school, while you were average at everything that wasn’t baseball.)

Here we come to the crux of the matter: recently, you haven’t felt like yourself.

Maybe it’s from seeing the same grey blur for sky; maybe this is the first sign of old age (at twenty-four, twenty-five) and the bitterness has finally caught up to you. You’re sick. Not sick like Lal (not that kind of sick, not yet), sick to the stomach, sick in the head, heartsick. You have dreams where you wash your hands in basins of red water; you lurch awake to discover flecks of blood in the sink. Not all of it is yours. Close quarters means sharing, even the things you’d rather keep to yourself – that last bit of disinfectant at the bottom of the bottle, toothpaste, nightmares, hope. (You’re not sure how you ended up in a future like this, where there isn’t enough of anything to go around. Time is the real villain. It’s taken a fancy to the ones you adore, snatching them away in a breath, coughing when you would kiss.)

Madness. You’re descending into it; can’t climb out of your feelings anymore; can’t pull out the thorn that’s in your body. And Gokudera knows. Gokudera knows. (So, this is the real crux, the root that’s taken hold and can’t be dug out.) You’ve done this for a long time; observing each other carefully, like lovers, skirting each other’s eyes, propping each other up without touching. Gokudera knows, and you can tell from the way he tracks you, presses his face to your dirty clothes in the laundry (as if you were Tsuna, as if you were numbered among the dead).

You must be crazier than you thought because his pain sets something curling in your belly; it’s attractive, and your self-control is unraveling in the face of it, of that overwhelming, pre-emptive grief. It’s not fair to start anything between you, not when there’s no chance of finishing, when whoever doesn’t die is left to pick up the pieces (because you both know there’s only one way left to go, and that’s in place of the other).

But the door pushes open easily (too easily) and you can’t seem to locate the last dredges of your resolve. Gokudera freezes, startled into looking at you, really looking – and the edge is somewhere behind you; you’re beyond caution or admonition now (so what if the world is ending? Hayato is right there –)

He whimpers into your mouth.

Meme: Share My Friends?

2008-03-24T05:39:41Z

SHARE MY FRIENDS MEME

Fic: Twigs of Trees

2008-03-23T13:01:05Z

I seem to have misplaced my voice. Target 186 was released this morning which made me feel a bit better about it (RYOHEI=INSTANTFANGIRLMUSH) but voices are not supposed to run away from you for no good reason. The weather hasn't even turned yet.

Anyway, not being able to say anything got me into my Gokudera mood. This one's about Gokkun!maman. Not outright sad; more resigned, if anything.

Title: Twigs of Trees
Characters/Pairing: Gen. Gokudera's mother in the three years she's given.
Word Count: 439
Excerpt: “She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them.”

She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them. It didn’t stop her from walking past the bars of the gate, left to right and right to left, and if she should be caught by his mechanical spies, let him explain to his wife then. Maybe she and her delicate, purebred sensibilities would finally understand that those lying in the gutters of the world were merely fallen flowers.

Perhaps she wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss beggars in rags if she knew they had lain in her husband’s bed.

[ She watches children running home from school, skinned knees and flushed cheeks, admires the pound of tiny children feet on pavement, and knowing that they all have mothers to smooth down their hair, she curls her hands in pain. ]

She called him Hayato because she hoped that he would fly away, that one day he would chase after the falcon in his name, that he would try, in his own way, to be free.

[ Promises aren’t always for keeping, but she holds the bundled baby in her arms and makes one anyway, ‘I won’t let go of you as long as I live.’ ]

When the sympathetic, soothing nurse stole her child, she lost her faith in justice. She learned the truth of things: there’s nothing fair about life after all, and she won’t ever make the same mistake again, won’t trust anyone anymore, especially sweet-tongued creatures with kind smiles and twinkles in their eyes.

[ She wants him to pick her face from a crowd, to reach up for a hug, to tug on her sleeve and drag her into stores, and she knows it’s hard; he sees her three times a year when she sees him everyday. ]

By the time they deemed him old enough to be let out for a bit of sunshine, he was thin, with that pale hair, a little ghost dashing through a flock of toddlers in the park; or on the streets, jostled by cartons of milk and oranges bulging from plastic bags. But he was alive. He was all of two and a half and gloriously, gloriously alive, even though she’d had doubts, even though she had feared –

[ There are mornings when her stomach rolls until she doubles over. Hayato kicks enthusiastically – and won’t it just kill her, if he turns out just like his father? In her heart, she wants him to be naïve, passionate and cigarette-shy, and she is sorry she has no purity left to give him.

He inherits her sadness, her hands and her will. ]

Fic: Dealing

2008-03-12T08:20:12Z

To make up for my recent lack of Yamamoto, I bring TYL!angst of the 8059 variety, with just a touch of Reborn/Lambo. As usual, Gokudera has managed to land a starring role with very little effort. It’s slightly AU – basically a ‘what if they were never rescued by their younger selves?’ scenario. Not particularly happy, as you can imagine.

Title: Dealing
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 565
Excerpt: “Things don't grow well underground, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.”

There is only one patch of green land in the Vongola base. Tsuna didn't consider a garden to be very high on the list of priorities when he designed it. Things don't grow well underground after all (the air is too stale), and water is rationed by Reborn almost as strictly as toilet paper. It’s not much to look at, a bit yellow in places, and Yamamoto has yet to meet any flower that flourishes in the face of Bianchi’s soup.

Uri is buried there, in that rectangular plot of grass, underneath soil sprinkled with half-bitten leeks and tomato peels. Tsuna might have been buried there too, but the strip wasn’t big enough. Glimpsing Hayato's stricken face each and every time he passes it, Yamamoto can't help but be glad of the fact.

[ The earth on its axis turns without a sound. Tsuna’s coffin is left unsealed, not from lack of caring but the glimmer of hope that remains unspoken, even as they struggle to be free. The tenth has been shot on many occasions. Perhaps this time it’s just taking him longer to wake up. ]

Hayato still stammers apologies in his sleep, forever explaining away the tears when they wake up side by side, shoving at Yamamoto’s chest – there’s nothing between us; you are you and I am me – rolling out of bed to stumble through another day. He dons an expression he thinks is neutral; truthfully, he just looks sad. Yamamoto hasn’t the heart to tell him, and neither, apparently, does anyone else. It’s as painful to watch as Nana’s brave grief the last time they see her, before Iemitsu spirits her away, like losing Tsuna all over again.

[ The world they are aboard continues to revolve, spinning to the beat of a fatalistic drum. ]

Hayato cries when Uri dies, even though the cat is mangy and unco-operative, averse to baths, only as real as a bit of dying will. He doesn’t cry when Tsuna dies, and Yamamoto is still trying to figure out what that means.

[ They are birds on a wire. A spark, and the world stops. ]

Yamamoto thinks they should have maybe made a plaque, some sort of tombstone, because Uri’s final resting place is rapidly turning into a compost heap. He came and went as he pleased in the manner of felines, fell victim to tre-ni-sette and that was the end of him. It’s been a number of years; he can’t blame Haru for forgetting, especially when she and Kyoko labour over the stove, when they are perpetually running out of bandages, when anyone taking out the trash runs the risk of being shot in the head.

[ This is war. ]

They are all madmen, hitmen, and Yamamoto cannot tell the difference anymore. One of these mornings, he will not get up. One of these mornings, he won’t want to. For now, he focuses on Hayato in lieu of his own scars and half-healed sores, tries his best not to overthink and fry his brain.

Reborn doesn’t comment on the way they’re drunk on each other. It isn’t practical to the cause, certainly, but Yamamoto has lost sight of the cause for a long while now, and nothing Reborn says on the matter will ever be convincing, not when he and Lambo...

Well.

[ They are all hypocrites, in the end. ]

Fic: This House of Ours

2008-03-08T09:34:18Z

OOKIKU FURIKABUTTE aka OOFURI. It's a must-see. I have never 'aww'ed or laughed so hard in my life. I would write a lengthy pimp post full of caps but just one episode and your butts will be hooked and you will know exactly what I mean.

It's just so impossibly shiny; smooth animation, solid storyline as far as sports animes go, a unique, crazy, gorgeous set of characters (major and supporting) and the ghei factor is through the roof. Plus, it's baseball, with plenty of excuses for boys to be holding hands. What are you waiting for?! I have it on good authority that it's thoroughly enjoyable even for those averse to buttsecks because it's not about the potential for slash (of which there is much); it's about burning youth and teamwork and all those things that give you warm fuzzies. The fandom needs more ~~fic art~~ love. IF YOU'RE INTERESTED, I can point you in the direction of torrents and direct downloads (or megaupload, anyway~).

So my Yamamoto muse seems to have gone temporarily AWOL. Have some more angsty boy!Gokudera gen instead. XD;

Title: This House of Ours
Characters/Pairing: Bianchi, Gokudera
Word Count: 436
Excerpt: “Everyone called him a troublesome boy, always crying, but Bianchi thought he might smile more if it they didn’t forget to feed him.”

Hayato was a fitful dreamer. He shook and fretted unless someone was nearby; his eyes fluttered behind their lids and he woke inevitably to bloody half-moons smeared over his palms. Everyone called him a troublesome boy, always crying, but Bianchi thought he might smile more if it they didn’t forget to feed him.

[ Half-past twelve. Hayato pounds the door with chubby toddler fists. He’s been caught at the piano again, threatened with broken fingers and tossed into his room. He decides he doesn't like hunger, nibbles on dirt-crusted nails and learns to be more discreet. ]

Bianchi wasn’t the favourite. Neither was Hayato. Their parents didn’t have time for such frivolous things; their father was too busy killing people and their mother could turn voluntarily deaf and blind in an instant, a useful trait in a mafia wife. She liked to pretend that she’d never had any children; Bianchi didn’t mind, and Hayato was never hers anyway.

[ For his birthday, Hayato’s father gifts him with packets of plastic soldiers and a toy gun (and a dead mother, but he doesn't know that yet). He moves steadily from 9/10 to 20/20; progresses from foam bullets to rubber bands, rarely off the mark.

At target practice, he recognises the particular shadow that means his father's watching from the window in his study. He skitters back deliberately to what he thinks is an impressive distance, squeezes the trigger, and coke erupts in a loud, glorious hiss, almost red on a sunny, half-baked day.]

Appearances were everything when you had nothing left. That was the reason behind their mother’s various lipsticks and perfume bottles, swollen ankles in stiletto heels. She had Bianchi done up in floral dresses, and Hayato was forever losing the buttons on his tux. The clothes made the man, and their clothes screamed, “There is nothing wrong with me.”

[ His father has starved and humiliated him, but he has never hit him, never backhanded him across the mouth like he wants to. Hayato knows never to be within striking distance just in case. It’s not breathing the wrong way that’s an offence. It’s the breathing itself. ]

Love had edges, she knew. When Hayato pulled the fruit knife on their father, she hesitated. His hands were shaking on the orange handle – he was going to miss, the idiot – but then the south wing exploded; a skid of sneakers, and Hayato was gone.

[ You can't choose your family. Hayato doesn’t care. He has one mother, one sister, a father he never has to see and the mafia. It’s enough. It’s got to be. ]

Fic: Once More With Feeling

2008-03-03T11:47:51Z

An experiment on style and tense-swapping; a story about Gokudera's parents written for demanawaits. <33 Just because. Since the two are currently anonymous, I'm only speculating on their characters; I've also taken the liberty of naming them (but symbolically) after attributes I imagine them to possess. :3

Title: Once More With Feeling
Characters/Pairing: An exploration of the relationship between Gokudera's parents in five acts.
Word Count: 810
Excerpt: “He discovered too late that she had a will of iron, strength in her frail-looking fists.”

Act I

( The curtain rises. The theatre is filled with people, the type of establishment where the seats are never empty. The décor is done in red and gold, traditional; it appeals to the nouveau-riche. The stage is large; the spotlight on an expensive grand piano [perhaps Steinway & Sons]. A woman is perched on the stool, but our first player is the man named Gola in the audience, one pin-striped leg hooked over the other, one arm around his wife. )

There was longing in the falls, Gola thought, tapping his chin idly, staccato, as she pulled music from the air.

( ‘She’ is the woman on the stool, called Colibri. )

Popular was perhaps not the right word for her. Sought-after. That was the one. She was in a dress of lace, pure white and shifting, a flower tucked in her tumble of hair. The public loved her because she was accessible. Even for those who knew nothing of composers and classical theory, her vitality was palpable. Colibri plucked at notes as though they were heartstrings and old souls sang in return.

In an overhanging alcove, Gola’s blood was humming. She was calling him, he was sure. ‘Gola, Gola!’ Sailor to a siren, her fleeting smile, the dance and flick of her wrists.

Absently, he massaged his wife’s thigh and turned to order more wine.

Act II

( After a performance, towards the back entrance of the recital hall; the lighting is dim; it is very quiet. Gola and Colibri are standing near the double doors. Colibri holds a mammoth bouquet of gardenias in her hands. She does not like white flowers. )

“Thank you,” she murmured delicately. Gola had watched her carefully for months; it remained the only English phrase she could enunciate clearly. She spoke not a word of Italian. Still, her eyes were alight, glittering like coals. Hypnotic.

When he kissed her, she did not object. She smiled against his lips and gave a whispery laugh, slowly licked at the corner of his mouth with the concentration she reserved for concertos. The flowers dropped to the floor, forgotten.

Seduced by the notion of a pretty Japanese bedwarmer, he told her sweet little lies and ran his fingers through her hair. He’d dreamt of this, of soft sighs and eager gasps, and if she was a touch less demure than he had anticipated, what of it?

Act III

( In the same recital hall; Gola is running late for his flight. The orange glow of a setting sun shines through the cracks in the doors. He glances at his watch. )

His wife was waiting in the car and Colibri seemed reconciled with this, with their end. She looped her arms around his neck, leaned up to brush a chaste kiss against his cheek. ‘Thank you and good bye.’ She was wearing a strapless top, light pink and see-through; Gola’s resolve crumbled as he breathed in her mint and chamomile. He would not leave her behind for other men.

He said, “You belong in Italy, my love,” but really, he meant, “You belong to me.”

Act IV

( The house is sizeable, modern and in good taste. There is a marked Japanese influence in the use of wood, the layout and sliding doors. From outside, the residence appears strangely out of place, the only sign of civilisation in the surrounding woods. )

He discovered too late that she had a will of iron, strength in her frail-looking fists. The things he was enamoured of, he came to despise; her defiance, the clinking of the bangles around her ankles. Shackles. She didn’t need syllables to express her loathing. ‘You keep me prisoner.’

He fully realised the far-reaching consequences of his miscalculation during the visit in May. “September,” she said, as soon as he walked in, one hand on her bulging abdomen, a piece of him inside her. “Should I kill it?” She was looking right at him, standing too close to the open window; a vase lay in shards on the dresser. Her hair was wild, dust gathered on every surface, every ivory key, and there must have been a knife hidden in the breeze because Gola shivered.

Act V

( 10pm in a sparsely furbished study; Gola is sitting by the fireside, burning photographs of he and Colibri. His wife is sleeping next door. Downstairs, his son solemnly saves a slice of birthday cake for his dead mother. )

Gola had hoped for a boy, an heir to model on himself, but it was not to be. Colibri’s eyes blinked from a face she had fashioned; she had her revenge in the form of a quiet child with oddly coloured hair.

( The curtain starts to fall; Greed consumes the Hummingbird. Gola alone is left on the stage, choking on a handful of feathers. )

Fic: Legacy

2008-02-28T10:52:02Z

I blame this on the weather. It's been utterly miserable around here for the past three days; windy and bucketing and grey. Trying to rush to classes on slippery floors and commuting on packed trains is a bit of a kill-joy too. So I wrote some Reborn fic to make myself feel better. Even though it's, uh, kind of depressing. My dear f-list, be assured that I torture you because I love you. Again, this falls into the category of gen-that-could-not-be-gen.

Title: Legacy
Characters/Pairing: Yamamoto, Gokudera (with 8059 subtext, if you wish to view it that way)
Word Count: 859
Excerpt: “Removing Tsuna’s imprint would be like scraping the remainder of burnt egg from a teppanyaki grill, messy and not altogether possible.”

They used to be practical, the type to suck it in and cough it out. Never mind the chip on your shoulder or the blood on your tie; there were brains to pick and necks to break and you would do it, even if you were dying, even if you didn’t want to, because Tsuna asked. When Tsuna made his last request, there were no lawyers or hospital beds, just six witnesses and the promise choked out of them. All the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men and it was the hardest thing he had ever done, but Yamamoto Takeshi never broke his promises.

Haru cried it out, listened to uplifting music and read soppy romance novels until she adjusted to the numbness of it all and then she walked away, packed her bags and caught a bus and was never heard from again. The others fell back on old habits; Kyoko and Ryohei became inseparable, two children huddled together when the night hid monsters, older shielding the younger and whispering spells in the dark. Hibari moved on, no more or less solemn than he had always been; a cloud without anchor; a different kind of grief. Pressing forward and in the middle of it all was Gokudera, who refused to or couldn’t forget, living mechanically because someone that he loved a long time ago told him that he must.

The meeting at the florist was a cautious manoeuvre on Yamamoto’s part. Horror stories about Gokudera’s volatility in recent months were alight in Namimori’s underbelly. But Gokudera barely looked up from his task, the carelessness with which he dethorned the roses was something Yamamoto couldn’t appreciate. There were cuts all along the pads of his fingertips as if he had never touched an instrument in his life and never planned to, as if someone like Gokudera could ever mishandle a knife.

At least the fresh flowers on Tsuna’s grave were no longer a mystery.

As Gokudera deftly wrapped the stems, he paused and gave Yamamoto a sideways glance, considering. His hair was long and greying unmistakably; the sharp hollow of his cheekbones at odds with the youthful face in Yamamoto’s memory. Yamamoto caught his eye, intent on starting conversation but the arrogant tilt of chin suddenly reminded him of Squalo, and the words died in his throat.

“Hello,” Gokudera said instead, voice rough – with emotion or shouting or disuse – and Yamamoto knew all those phases of mourning intimately, but four years was too long; it must be too long, surely? Or was it simply callous of Yamamoto to have grown cold in so short a time? Was it selfish of them to hold Gokudera at arm’s length for fear of infection? Because Gokudera had a way of making you recall things you thought were buried, the one out of all of them who had changed the most and yet sometimes it seemed not at all.

“Hello,” Yamamoto echoed, and Gokudera smiled in a manner he’d forgotten – thinly, like old ricepaper doors – and went back to his flowers. Thus dismissed, Yamamoto stared at the blue tape dispenser, surveying the counter which had been cleared out for Gokudera’s personal use; at a loss, because there was only one thing he needed to say – “Tsuna wouldn’t have wanted this” – but they hadn’t spoken properly since the last anniversary, and did he really have the authority to tell Gokudera what a dead man, what a good man, might have said?

Yamamoto had no desire to fight with anyone anymore; too old, too tired, too everything, and there was a large, painful probability that Gokudera already knew.

There was no real way of knowing why Gokudera was acting the way he was, a loose cannon without hands to hold him steady. Bianchi romanticised the notion (she fancied that Tsuna was Hayato’s Romeo) and Shamal said it was guilt, penance (“he wants to punish himself”) but Yamamoto didn’t think that was the case; knew it, in fact, as surely as the batter’s instinct that never really left him. It was only at the end of all things that he truly realised the extent of Gokudera’s loyalty. It was humbling, horrifying, to find out that his own didn’t stretch that far.

Had he become too accustomed to civilian life now that he was without Reborn’s guidance, a sword that lost its edge?

No… There was still some guardian in Yamamoto left, even if the things he needed to protect were scattered now, and it was unacceptable that the one right in front of him was the one he couldn’t save. But removing Tsuna’s imprint would be like scraping the remainder of burnt egg from a teppanyaki grill, messy and not altogether possible.

“Why so serious?” The roses were laid lovingly in Gokudera’s arms now. He’d turned towards Yamamoto, watching him with the mocking grace of a predator. Light poured in from the window, bathing them in sunbeams until Gokudera’s face was a wispy silhouette. Already halfway out the door, running late for an appointment with death; Yamamoto chased him with his eyes and knew he’d lost him forever.

Fic: The Spiralling

2008-02-24T00:41:50Z

Not what it initially appears to be and I'm terribly sorry in advance. I wrote it with 8059 in mind but there isn't anything in the text to suggest it... except maybe an overall feeling? Could be read as gen.

Title: The Spiralling
Characters/Pairing: Yamamoto, Gokudera
Word Count: 592
Excerpt: “People forget that Yamamoto tried to jump off the school building, once.”

Yamamoto rubs at the blood on Gokudera’s face and tries his best not to frown. Right-hand man isn’t a station you’re appointed to, but something you earn, an understanding between you and the rest of the team. Gokudera doesn’t even know he’s on a team yet. He leaps without looking, vies for the position so hard because he needs to mean something to someone, anyone, and Yamamoto wants to yell in frustration because there’ll be nothing left to prove if he’s dead.

People forget that Yamamoto tried to jump off the school building, once.

He likes to think he’s learned a little from the experience, even if it’s negligible in the face of larger tragedies, another near-miss that’s swept under the carpet because there’s always something bigger and more dangerous in need of your immediate attention, like having hitmen on your heels and being catapulted ten years into the future. When people are actually dying in the present, the past tends to pale in comparison.

But really, it’s lucky Yamamoto’s an easy-going kind of guy or this would have killed him by now, in a dozen more ways than one. Even Tsuna’s mellowed a bit, too exhausted to panic about every unfavourable situation (of which there are many) and, for the most part, trusting his guardians to look after themselves.

…which brings Yamamoto back to Gokudera’s blatant disregard for his own well-being.

For awhile the episode with the crazed Varia prince seems to help, and then the relapse strikes. Yamamoto starts to think it has less to do with Gokudera forgetting that particular lesson and more to do with the fact that he’s utterly convinced of his own worthlessness. It’s a lost cause, like telling a child it’s absurd to be afraid of the dark; there’s nothing to be done until the kid grows out of it.

Except Yamamoto’s beginning to wonder if that’s ever going to happen.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…

Gokudera sits still and lets Yamamoto go through the motions, attending to wounds that have long healed over. There are a lot of things he could say, so many to choose from that he bites his lip and doesn’t say anything at all. Look, my hair is longer now, and it is, cropped at the base of his neck and shot through with white. Time has stolen their lives without Yamamoto noticing and Gokudera always knew he was too good to be true: Yamamoto, who takes everything (deaths, and murder, but mostly living when everyone else isn’t) in stride until Hibari plummets, tonfas and all, from the rooftop of Namimori, and then Yamamoto’s tripping at last, falling, crying, and landing, conveniently, into the safety net of twenty years ago.

So then there really is no one but Gokudera left.

There are good days, when Yamamoto only insists on one round of bandaging, and then there are bad days, when Yamamoto asks where Tsuna is, or where everyone’s gone and the irony strikes Gokudera so hard that he might as well be bleeding. I don’t know, he could say (because he’s not sure he believes in heaven anymore but the only alternative is ten feet into the ground), why don’t we go find them?

I don’t want this. I don’t want to be alone like this. Come back to me, you idiot. Where have you gone?

Except Yamamoto would look at him and hold him and be concerned and not understand. No, it’s not okay. It’s not.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily… Life is but a dream…

Fic: Confessional

2008-02-21T23:05:25Z

I've no excuse for this one. *fidgets* Another introspective child!Gokkun short except it turned creepy, alternate-pairing (Xanxus/Gokudera, WTF?) of its own accord. More fairy-tales, general obscurity and biblical references that may offend the religious.

Title: Confessional
Characters/Pairing: XANXUS/GOKUDERA. Tread carefully my dears~
Word Count: 527
Excerpt: “Sequestered away in Rapunzel's tower, Hayato kneels and says his prayers.”

Hayato cries because it means someone will look; sure-footed Marias smoothing out his hair, a glance from Bianchi, their mother's impatience, her clicking tongue. In a house filled with people, loneliness reaches an all-time high, the way a body swelters when clambering out of an air-conditioned car. Much the same, hallways are longer when whispers sound beyond the walls. For almost as long as he can remember, life has been mapped out in moments, moments stolen after his face scrunches up and the tears fall fast and warm. There is something about a sobbing child that moves the heart to pity. Once, after he coughed and hiccupped himself into a fit, his mother patted him tentatively on the head, the way you would an unfamiliar dog.

Intermittent affection is enough for Hayato to fool himself; just like behind black curtains, he can pretend that the priest cares about him and not just the delicate state of his eight-year-old soul. The product of his parents' sins, agnus dei, never falter. Never bare your throat.

Sequestered away in Rapunzel's tower, Hayato kneels and says his prayers. God will give him everything he needs because God forgives everyone, even Rumpelstiltskin's own. And so, Hayato bides his time like a good little boy and waits for God to give him his revenge. He believes it with the wholeheartedness that only children and a man on his deathbed can possess. The Bible says so, and there is no one to tell him otherwise.

When Tsuna picks him up he is faithless and attention-starved, a leaf straining towards the sun. Mercy is a new feeling for him, different from forbearance and disgust; it takes a long time for Gokudera to realise what it is, and even longer to learn to hate it, the way a real man should. The way his father would. But father will soon be dead, he thinks, and God and old age will have nothing to do with it.

His childhood is fractured in stories told by a cracked mirror and every so often a piece will emerge, in his heart or in his eye, so that the world turns ugly and cold. Every lover is a ghost; every smile an offhand lie. It's a relief that in his infinite paranoia he never has to worry about Xanxus, who he knows is traitorous, somewhere between convenient body and fuckbuddy, and who never smiles anyway - too busy grabbing at hips, laughing hysterically and scraping Gokudera's mouth with his fangs.

"What are you thinking of?" It's not so much a question as a command to stop but Gokudera isn't Varia or the precious shark gone to ride the horse - far, far too old to fear the veiled promise of pain. Scattered months of this, and still Xanxus expects him to tremble like a rabbit?

"Revenge," he smiles, bruising his fingers over Xanxus' jaw as he recalls days when the resolve to dance on his father's grave was the only thing that ensured his tenuous grip on reality. "Bastard," he taunts, and leans up to kiss him softly, the way he would kiss Yamamoto, or Tsuna. You're just like me, see?

Fic: Juliet's Prayer

2008-02-19T08:23:08Z

So I'm reading Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and apart from the underlying sense of unease and interesting use of expression, it's just not that much of a page-turner. Granted, I'm not that far into it yet but I'm beginning to get the horrible feeling that I've missed the point.

/random

Title: Juliet's Prayer
Characters/Pairing: Gokudera and Bianchi-centric
Excerpt: “Their mother is a woman who never has a tender word for anyone, and she certainly hasn’t a pleasant thought to spare for Hayato, the lamb born mistakenly to a line of wolves.”

Their mother is a woman who never has a tender word for anyone, and she certainly hasn’t a pleasant thought to spare for Hayato, the lamb born mistakenly to a line of wolves.

He cries when she reads about wicked witches, step-sisters and mothers but she never stops until she’s satisfied. Some nights, she stays awake wondering how far up on the cruelty meter it is to take pleasure in closing the door after a particularly violent bedtime story. She wonders if she cares. Left alone in a lightless room, Bianchi listens to tears and thinks of black eyes and thinks of Snow White.

“…And now a special sort of death for one so fair. What shall it be? Ah! A Poison Apple…”

Hayato is less like Cinderella and more like Little Red, running out and out of the woods without her happy ending. There’s murder on his skin and their father is both the woodcutter and the wolf, but he knows how to use an axe now and he won’t ever forget. Because some things learned are never taught and even though he doesn’t take the name, the blood is his. The thirst is his. And so, revenge will be his, too.

She doesn’t care how long it takes; she only wants to see it, the obliteration of the man who ruined their mothers’ lives. This is their common ground, their determination: thousands of goodnight kisses laid on cheeks of marble and the distant memory of a woman with black hair.

Plied with enough wine, Hayato will cry in her arms like he used to - smile as if he isn’t fully in control of his facial features. Sheep in wolf’s clothing, wolf in sheep’s clothing; the way even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

“…And at the final stroke of midnight…”

What will remain?

So, my lovelies, what's your favourite fairy-tale? I'm a fan of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty myself~

Fic: Co-Habitation

2008-02-17T03:37:50Z

Title: Co-Habitation
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 555
Excerpt: “Their place is brightly-lit and modern and filled with paintings of waterfronts and dappled canals.”

1.

Gokudera is snoozing quietly in the living room. The lights in the house are off; the television casts a blue glow over his face. Yamamoto's eyes flicker from the empty DVD case on the table to the clock on the wall. He feels mildly guilty when Gokudera starts awake, but it's then that he suddenly remembers the attraction of having someone to come home to.

Apart from the Famiglia, they have nothing in common. They don't share taste in food or clothing (or furniture or interests or men) but no one can deny that they make a handsome couple, or that Yamamoto is the only one who can appease Gokudera's self-righteous anger. No one knows that Gokudera never cooks things Yamamoto doesn't like (tomatoes), that he doesn't smoke so much at home, that he keeps the fatalistic streak at bay.

They don't need justifications. Gokudera finds Yamamoto a comfortable enough harbour to crawl into, and Yamamoto admires the wind in his sails; that's all.

Their place is brightly-lit and modern and filled with paintings of waterfronts and dappled canals. Yamamoto is agreeable about the colour scheme (sunny), the décor, wooden shutters instead of curtains and even the impossibly expensive bathroom tiles; in fact, the only thing he insists on is one of those sofas that folds out into a makeshift bed. Let it never be said that Yamamoto is without foresight.

They see a lot more of each other; it's natural for the fights to increase and escalate. Closer, Yamamoto discovers, means apologies and relenting and trying not to act like a stubborn fool. It's frighteningly easy to hurt Gokudera of late (he knows how to now) and just because there are no in-laws to answer to, doesn't mean Yamamoto won't try to treat him right.

Of course, he soon realises that it’s not in-laws he needs to be worried about.

Bianchi (read: A Force To Be Reckoned With) is a topic that's never brought up while they're under the same roof. The very mention of her name is enough to make Gokudera green around the gills and painfully remind Yamamoto of the promise he made her before they attempted to be 'roommates,' the one Gokudera will never ever find out about. He's still considering suing for duress.

Shamal… is an unexpected obstacle, and not just because he comes equipped with condoms and sex advice.

It’s only when Reborn pops out of the medicine cabinet that Yamamoto starts to think the welcome mat was a bad idea.

2.

Gokudera is the first into the apartment; he disables the alarm and traipses into the bedroom, dragging his feet just slightly. Yamamoto follows, watching the other man as he loosens and removes his tie, slides open the appropriate drawer with a soft shick and stows the bit of expensive silk away. He smiles to himself. So particular, his Gokudera, when Yamamoto is just as likely to leave his hanging from a door handle, on the kitchen counter, under the bed or somewhere else he won't remember in the morning.

"G'night bastard," comes the sleepy murmur, and Gokudera is already half-dreaming, sprawled deliberately in the centre of the mattress, a pillow clutched to his stomach.

"Guess I'm not forgiven yet, huh?" Yamamoto whispers sadly. He reaches out to touch goose-feather hair, but as usual, his hand passes through.

Fic: Gokudera, Housewife Extraordinaire

2008-02-16T02:49:12Z

Title: Gokudera, Housewife Extraordinaire
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 466
Excerpt: “Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish.”

1. Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish. Instantly aware, he brings a clammy hand to his forehead, habits left over from months of sleeping in his fighting gear. The base is perfectly silent but he sits up and turns on impulse towards the door, voice guttural: "What the fuck do you want?"

With a snarl, he draws blankets into his lap to hide the proof that the bastard's screwing with his head and fuck if it isn't working – he's not fifteen and tender anymore and all his thinking should be done strictly by his brain, not… other places.

"Couldn't sleep," Yamamoto offers from the doorway, looking a little apologetic but mostly just exhausted in his blue-and-white flannel pyjamas.

"So you thought it would be okay to wake me up?" Gokudera grouches, cursing whichever god made the idiot so damned vulnerable and good-looking, and the stupid pumping mass in his chest that cares. "Come in," he hisses when the idiot doesn't move, "You're letting in the cold."

2. Mothers tend to veer away from Gokudera at the best of times; at the supermarket they drop their apples and oranges and make off clutching their shopping baskets. He doesn’t like to spare too much thought on the phenomenon; maybe it’s because he smells like chimney and they’re wisely maintaining the Smoker’s Perimeter. Maybe it’s because of the way he dresses. Maybe it’s because he’s Italian. Either way, it makes buying groceries that much easier; he gets the best pick of the produce and no one’s around to witness him with the questionable items that Yamamoto doesn’t think about.

3. Gokudera twists the phone cord nervously as it rings. Click. He exhales, the rush of air crackling into the receiver.

"…dera?"

The connection isn't very good but Yamamoto's surprise carries anyway and Gokudera's almost certain that he's interrupting some vital part of the mission. He clears his throat. "Yeah. I – How –?" He swallows the end of that question because it's hideously mundane and not what he wants to know at all. "Where are you?" he asks instead. Arizona? Taipei? He's not supposed to know, of course; it saves him the trouble of someone trying to bludgeon the information out of him.

There's a pensive pause on the other end. "Hey. I… back soon," Yamamoto soothes, "Nothing… ry about."

Gokudera grips the handset with white-knuckled anxiety; wishes he was in on this stupid suicidal stint too. "Okay." Okay.

4. On good days, Yamamoto lifts Lambo in the air and lets him play Superman or hoists the kid onto his shoulders. Tsuna scoops the stupid cow up all the time, mostly out of harm’s way, but only Gokudera knows how to carry Lambo properly, the way his mother never got to.

Fic/Meme: Liquorice Allsorts

2008-02-15T05:05:18Z

Title: Liquorice Allsorts (or The 10 Songs Meme)
Characters/Pairing: Yamamoto and Gokudera-centric: some gen and some 8059.
Word Count: 686
Excerpt: “Yamamoto wasn’t even aware of the scouting industry before Gokudera deemed him fit to be seen in public with.”
A/N: So I’m a pitifully slow writer but I figured I should do this before the bandwagon ran away. XD

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

A Wish for Something More – Amy MacDonald

Yamamoto has long come to terms with the fact that Gokudera can never love him the way he wants, with no pretence, and reckless abandon. Gokudera loves like he kisses, with timid, half-concealed fervour, and only ever after a narrow scrape with death.

I Want To Love You In My Room – Irving

They're avoiding twittering fangirls together when Yamamoto touches his elbow with a grin and an eyebrows-raised, I'm-trying-to-be-meaningful look. There really is nothing subtle about him, Gokudera marvels as he kicks open the nearest classroom door and drags Yamamoto into it by his open shirt collar.

They're interrupted by Kusakabe at one point. The boy stammers out an apology, closes the door and sits down heavily. He pictures Gokudera and Hibari, and then must decide whose wrath he'd rather be incurring.

The Ketchup Song – Las Ketchup

Yamamoto considers the spread before him and raises a hand to pet his suddenly queasy stomach. He’s sure that every spoonful of thick, creamy pumpkin soup and equally creamy penne – he’s never seen so much grated cheese in his life – brings him closer to death by heart attack. Gokudera seems pleasantly unaware of his impending doom however, tucking in with those impossible skinny wrists of his. Yamamoto picks frugally at his own dish, unable to imagine (let alone eat) two more courses served on plates the size of hub caps, and as much bread and wine as he can manage.

My Girlfriend – DBSK

She’s a sweet girl: unerringly polite and prettier than Haru and Sasagawa combined. Gokudera takes one look at Yamamoto’s blushing face and decides he hates her guts.

Stop Crying Your Heart Out – Oasis

Gokudera can see them from his window, standing just close enough to be intimate. He brushes the hair from her neck. She smiles like maple syrup. They’re conversing in hushed tones and he kisses her cheek, chastely. Then she’s on her way, and he’s coming in, fortified with vacant lies that Gokudera doesn’t want to hear. “Do you think this will spare me?” he wants to say, but then they would both hurt, and what’s the point in that?

Getting Away With Murder – Papa Roach

Gokudera is tapping in morse code on the edge of his desk with his biro, paying blatant inattention while the teacher explains the idea behind Taylor’s Theorem and tries to get over the disappointment of his brightest student being thoroughly disinterested in anything he has to say.

Whatever You Want – Vienna Teng

She always knew the man was married. She noticed him the first time he stepped into the restaurant, the gaijin with sparkling cuff links and a pierced ear. He was built like a mountain, flanked by bowling-pin bodyguards, and the woman on his arm could only be his wife, leggy and blonde with laughter that rang like bells across a lawn. She never meant to enter his world, but the child in her womb didn’t give her much choice.

Harder to Breathe – Maroon 5

It feels all wrong, like looking at a blackboard without his glasses or the tenth’s coffin lying unburied in the middle of a forest. He pulls away with a wet gasp, extricates himself from the heated embrace. “Sorry. I –”

What’s-his-name gives him a lopsided smile and shakes his head. “It’s okay. There’s someone else right?” He laughs throatily at Gokudera’s slack-jawed expression and leans in for another quick kiss. “It’s always the cute ones.”

Models – Girls Aloud

Yamamoto wasn’t even aware of the scouting industry before Gokudera deemed him fit to be seen in public with.

Do What You Have To Do – Sarah McLachlan

When Yamamoto asks him what he should get his girl for White Day, Gokudera fumbles through his collection of beads and necklaces and various chains, pulls out the ugliest ring he can find and thrusts it into the idiot’s palm. It’s a silver skull he stole from a street vendor a lifetime ago in Italy, scratched in at least three places with an obviously fake diamond winking from its left eye.

Yamamoto looks plaintively at him. “You think this’ll work?”

Fic: Let It Be

2008-02-14T21:55:13Z

Title: Let It Be
Characters/Pairing: Unrequited 59-->80
Word Count: 305
Excerpt: “Lately, Yamamoto is always laughing into his cell phone, scratching idly at the scar on his chin.”

Lately, Yamamoto is always laughing into his cell phone, scratching idly at the scar on his chin. His sparkling bear phone accessory is obviously part of a matching set and Gokudera has the urge to smother himself in the nearest pillow whenever he sees it. The idiot isn't allowed to have a girlfriend. Having Gokudera should be enough. Is enough.

Do you, Yamamoto Takeshi --

"I'm going to marry her," Yamamoto declares over dinner one day. Gokudera scrutinises him from the other side of the table, twists his fork and stuffs fettuccini into his mouth because he can't think of anything to say. "Good," he mutters finally and illustrates his point by stabbing viciously at a hapless mushroom. "Got a ring yet?"

-- to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Gokudera is lying on Yamamoto's bed when the idiot bursts in, grinning like he's won the lottery, like all the light in the galaxy is converged on this one expression of utter... joy. Gokudera closes his eyes; waits for the news that will tear the very fabric of space from underneath him.

"She said yes!"

"Of course she did," he says dully, and Yamamoto laughs the laugh of the happiest man in the world.

I do. I do. I do --

His first impulse when he tears open the envelope and the wedding invitation falls out, is to burn it. Quickly with his lighter or numerous times with the end of his cigarette; either way, he never wants to lay eyes on the shimmery gold print and expensive paper again. Instead, he stares intently at the kanji proclaiming 'best man,' picks it up and tucks it into his pocket. He flips open his organiser to pencil in a tailoring appointment, and, after some consideration, bar nights for the rest of the week. Month. Year.

Fic: 3 Dates (sort of)

2008-02-14T00:57:15Z

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.

Fic: Sound and Fury

2008-02-07T11:51:17Z

Title: Sound and Fury
Characters/Pairing: Gokudera
Word Count: 546
Excerpt: “The boy charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.”

The boy near the shore is ankle-deep in sand and half-way out to sea. His hair is straggly, billowing like the threadbare ends of a flag. It looks like he’s been dragged out by the tide; he idles back towards the beach, trance-like, charges at sandcastles as though he’s demolishing his father’s empire, kicks the waves and dares the gods to strike him where he stands.

Oh Hayato. What have you done now?

There’s a painting of a sinking galleon in the dining hall. The vessel is frozen mid-destruction, starboard splintering, waves white-tipped and ravenous. Looking at it, Gokudera can imagine lightning, screaming himself hoarse in the crow’s nest as the mast shudders and cracks below. He dislikes it, but his gaze is drawn there during meals. There are only ever three people at the table, including himself, and there’s nowhere to look but the ship or his plate. The boy keeps his head down, pretending to be engrossed with his cutlery. His father and Bianchi sit opposite, their knives and forks shrieking in the silence.

Gokudera doesn’t hate Bianchi. There’s only so much resentment a child can hold in its body without crippling itself, and all of his is directed at the man sitting beside her. Said man is unconcerned in the face of his son’s wrath, guffawing and stirring his watery stew. He knows the stringbean doesn’t have it in him to do anything yet. But the spoon, one would notice - the spoon never touches his mouth. He knows well the woman he married and Bianchi is the spitting image of her mother, Snow White and witch all at once.

It’s raining, it’s pouring. The old man is snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning. Oh, if only! If only!

On days when the fever catches up to him, Gokudera is certain Reborn blows half-truths into Tsuna’s ears, mutters about illegitimacy and tainted blood or bastard heirs, and then everyone will know how he killed his mother and hates his father and the Tenth won’t want him anymore. Even so, Gokudera will never have Reborn as an enemy because he doesn’t even register on the Arcobaleno’s radar. It’s pathetic how desperate for approval he is, but more than anything, Gokudera is tired of being unworthy.

On the rooftop of Namimori, hands clutching at the flimsy wire fencing, Gokudera wonders if anyone will see him if (unless) he jumps off. He never does, never dares, fumbling open a lighter with the intention of smoking until he dies (or someone sees him and takes pity).

This is the thing about the mafia. Hey, are you listening? You listening? The thing is, the mafia. It’s your life. And then it kills you, you see. Just like that. Like that – Like that –

A car upends itself in his dreams, tumbling, tumbling; it blows up in his nightmares. Gokudera is sweating when he wakes, sometimes in darkness, sometimes to sunlight warming the bed. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in a futile effort to blind. Three minutes later, the trembling subsides enough to start the coffee, and somewhere between toast and waiting for the water to boil, he’ll remember that the world is tumbling too.

Fic: Saving Gokudera

2008-02-05T06:23:35Z

Title: Saving Gokudera
Characters/Pairing: 8059, but it could just as easily be gen.
Word Count: 534
Excerpt: “Yamamoto is like the shock of someone thumping him in the lungs and breaking his ribs to make him breathe.”

1. There's something to be said about Italian blood. Gokudera is his mother's boy; it's where he gets his hands, his eyes. But if it's her romanticism that causes him to run those hands around the rim of a stray shell, then it must be his father's delight that leads him to laugh when his fingers come away red and wet. The throb of salt on jagged skin shoots just enough adrenaline to ebb the tears as the four-year-old prances barefoot in the sand, presses the shell to his ear and then hurls it into the sea.

It’s been a year. The boy is still convinced his mother’s sailed away on a grand adventure. He whispers secrets to her and folds her paper boats cross-legged on the beach. His soul is shared equally between her and his piano; his papa owns but a sliver of it, the part he managed to snag with a fistful of euros and three pints of blood. The child won’t know until his birthday that she’s dead. He won’t know until the next birthday how she died, and he’ll be eight before he overhears the truth and flees Italy altogether. Before he meets Tsuna, he’s walking underwater, a prized ship in a bottle unused to the shatter of freedom.

Everyone makes bad decisions, Gokudera, my boy. Sometimes people die.

From then on, his birthday is also the anniversary of his mother’s death, his father’s sick way of ensuring he regrets being born for the rest of his life. And he does. He regrets; regrets that alcohol loosens wagging tongues, regrets staying for so long in the house of a murderer and above all, regrets being that murderer’s son.

2. Gokudera knows the feeling of drowning (the pressure building inside your chest of something dragging you under, and the holding out, hope, desperation as you realise nobody’s coming). But Yamamoto – Yamamoto is like the shock of someone thumping him in the lungs and breaking his ribs to make him breathe. Gokudera hates him on sight.

Hey. Stop. Can’t you see I’m not worth saving?

He hates him afterwards too, the boy as irritating as rain on a peaceful afternoon. From his first frustrating, blinding smile, Yamamoto douses Gokudera’s fire, water on dynamite until all that’s left is the vertigo seizing his gut. In the recesses of his soul, need and pride circle each other and refuse to get along.

He’s chilled when Yamamoto hauls him from the bathtub, slams him against the towel rack and screams, “Do you want to fucking die?”

“Yes,” he gasps (chokes) and socks the stunned bastard in the jaw with all the strength he can muster. You can’t save me. I won’t let you. So there – So there –

He feels himself go under.

2.5. Later, when Tsuna is pacing back and forth, muttering about ambulances, Reborn fixes Yamamoto with a look. The baby makes an expansive gesture with his hand that could indicate anything from the purpling bruise on Gokudera’s spine to his current frozen, unconscious state to Yamamoto’s own throbbing imprint of a fist. “What happened here?”

“I –“ Failed. Utterly.

He drops his head into his hands and wishes things could be different.

Fic: More Ways It Could Have Begun

2008-02-03T05:28:02Z

Title: More Ways It Could Have Begun
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 462
Excerpt: “It takes a while for Gokudera to notice how hungrily Yamamoto watches him.”

1. “Do you love me?” It’s not so much a plea for assurance as it is an accusation. Yamamoto sighs, rests a hand at the back of his neck and sighs again. He’s been hoping to avoid this particular conversation. Gokudera is chewing on his cigarette – a sure sign of agitation – smouldering and pissy and distinctly unimpressed.

“Well, you baseball bastard? Do you?” he demands, stomping his foot in emphasis. Yamamoto looks down at him and thinks this would all be a heck of a lot easier if Gokudera wasn’t so damned attractive.

“Yeah,” he exhales finally.

“Fuck,” Gokudera swears, glaring at him. Yamamoto shrugs and trails his fingertips across those pretty collar bones. It would probably have been better to lie, he reflects, but he’s not sorry.

“Pervert,” Gokudera snorts. He’s tilting his head unconsciously to give better access though; eyes Yamamoto with a weighty, considering gaze that tells him the issue’s far from over - but he’s willing to be distracted, for the moment.

2. Gokudera likes Takoyaki. The wait is never long and there’s something about the thick sauce and rich flavour that reminds him of Italy. He doesn’t have it very often; the texture of creamy octopus makes him feel like he’s betraying his country. Yamamoto catches on very quickly. He’s around his dad often enough to recognise the enjoyment as Gokudera bites cautiously into the snack, opens his dark mouth to breathe out when it proves too hot and licks his fingers when he’s done. It’s no wonder Gokudera doesn’t usually like sushi, a cold and dainty dish eaten with chopsticks and green tea.

It takes a while for Gokudera to notice how hungrily Yamamoto watches him when he’s having his favourite food. A reluctant offer to share makes him gasp when the other boy leans forward and plunders the taste from his mouth.

3. There are lots of things Gokudera can’t do now. He consoles himself by listing the things he can do, methodologically in his head, because writing is one of the things not on that list, at least until his left hand gets used to it. It is not, to his silent frustration, something that happens immediately through balls and sheer force of will.

Yamamoto is no psychic, but the bad energy that surrounds Gokudera is enough to thin crowds. Walking into a room already occupied by the Storm guardian is like entering a morgue. Everyone has taken to slinking around headquarters, avoiding while doing their best to appear casual.

Yamamoto isn’t the type to make excuses and tiptoe around people. The more Gokudera stands as if surrounded by a pocket of air, the more Yamamoto skates that imaginary line. When he seals their mouths together, Gokudera pants as though he’s punctured a lung, a swimmer breaching the surface of a tremendous sea.

Fic: 2 Hospital Visits

2008-01-28T11:24:08Z

Title: 2 Hospital Visits
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 497
Excerpt: “Gokudera is clenching so tightly his Ring punctures the side of the can.”

1. Gokudera is crying into his coke. It’s the first thing Yamamoto notices after the shroud of sleep lifts. He closes his eyes and finds himself floundering, willing himself back into that blissful darkness. He can’t tell if it’s night or morning; there are no windows: only that merciless electric light that bleaches everything white as bone.

Gokudera is clenching so tightly his Ring punctures the side of the can. He doesn’t notice, not when the cold liquid spills all over his hands, his jeans – doesn’t even look up when Yamamoto pries the dented aluminium from his fingers and flags down a nurse.

What is the world without its sky?

That night, Gokudera seeks him out, presses against his mouth and whispers rough things that make him think of prayer. Can I be your salvation? Can I, can I -

2. Yamamoto rearranges the daffodils for the fifth time while Gokudera sleeps. The vase is new; Dino visited yesterday, all sunlight and sparkle, and true to form, knocked the old one down three minutes after he walked in. The replacement is prettier, undoubtedly much more expensive.

He’s finishing with the stalks just as Gokudera makes a soft noise from behind him, and wakes.

“Yamamoto?” His voice is drowsy. There’s the telltale creak of a mattress as he slowly sits up. “Good morning.”

The Rain guardian’s hands still. He can think of a thousand places he’d rather be, a thousand reasons why no, it isn’t a good morning but he makes it a point to smile as he turns around and steps closer to the bedside.

“Good morning,” he agrees, even though it’s a lie. “How are you feeling?” Hands in pockets, manner deliberately light.

Gokudera shrugs helplessly and tilts his head to look at him. His shoulders appear narrow in the hospital gown, shifting under the voluminous fabric as he plays with the cross hanging at the hollow of his neck. “Okay I guess. I don’t know how I’m meant to be,” he admits. “I don’t know why I’m still here.” His fingers stray to the bandage on his cheek and he drops his eyes, hunching over. It’s true that he’s mostly healed. The remaining wounds are nicks and grazes, superficial things that shouldn’t be enough to keep him confined to a bed. “Have I – Did I do something wrong?” I-I’m sorry. Do I know you?

“No,” Yamamoto says immediately, working hard to swallow the blockage in his throat. “It’s not – No,” he repeats. Try as he might, he can’t put anything into words; not the Vongola, the ties that knot each of them; not the way Gokudera has Shamal running halfway across the world for a cure; not the lessons in Italian he’d been promised. How to explain it isn’t safe for him to set foot from the building in this state?

...it could be temporary; we’re still not sure what caused the memory loss -

Inhale. Exhale. “I trust you.”

For the moment, it’s enough.