Fatality
Yamamoto was the first to leave the family.
Official police and Vongola records may have his status down as 'deceased', but to Gokudera Hayato, any idiot who had to rely mainly on close combat was doomed the moment they joined the mafia world. And all those years of trying to convince Reborn of this fact had lead to the perfect 'I told you so' situation.
A .22 Swift on average flies through the air at 1220 metres per second, give or take on the basis of air density and angle.
And Yamamoto Takeshi was no Superman.
Gokudera would like to say that his 10th was the best one out there and could withstand anything, no questions asked. But just one word could drag even the most talented men down to their knees.
The right hand man would find the asshole who had the gall to drop the word so prematurely and tactlessly in front of the boss and kill everyone and then some if it meant erasing that word from existence, but there really was no way around it- no matter how sugar-coated it was.
Dead. As a fucking doornail.
The autopsy revealed only four bullets lodged in the man, dispersed mainly in the lower body; two along the spinal cord, and the other two at the back of the knees. They weren't looking to kill, but no questions were needed for the katana sliced into the stomach, two nicks into the flesh, revealing the insides all too well. It was funny though, after taking away the hands to look at the face. It was…happy, on the verge of smiling as if the man had done something worth being prideful of.
Fucking idiot.
The 10th was painfully unaware of all this, it was his request after all. He still believed Yamamoto had died out of honor. It sounded romantic, but Gokudera was fucking sick of dramatics. No matter how many times he had to repeat it, Gokudera couldn't make his Tenth admit that Yamamoto's defeat was one as a result of fatal stupidity and it wasn't any of your fault, so please, it really, really, wasn't, don't, don't…it's not…your…so don't…
Let it go, Dino mouthed, steering Gokudera away from the grieving man, let it go.
Takeshi's father was contacted personally by Gokudera, even flying to Japan to meet the man. Truth to be told, the 21 year old wasn't at all ready to meet the elder Yamamoto, even with note cards and suggestions piled in his suitcase.
We regret to inform you…
Fuck, if he was going to say that, better off using postage.
But no one deserved that, not even the idiot.
Gokudera coughed politely and slid his tongue across the upper row of his teeth, painfully aware of how hot the tea was. The first ten minutes went by as brutal as any stake-out, neither men making any real move to talk after the mafia hitman explained the situation and afterwards drinking cup after cup of the scalding tea, pretending it was all Asahi in non-alcoholic form. It wasn't working.
"I'm proud of him. He was a good boy." Yamamoto senior smiled at his own words, his face crinkling upwards. The older man tactfully lowered his eyes and concentrated on his own hands, though noting the slight shiftiness of the man across the table. Gokudera knew he should formulate a sincere apology, anything really, but his mouth dried up and refused to open, mirroring his disgust at the thought of having to apologize for such a stupid mistake that he didn't even commit.
"He may not have gone down for the right cause," Yamamoto enunciated slowly, still with the soft, faint smile on his lips as he caught Gokudera's attention.
"But he did go down for one."
The right hand man slid a letter containing first class round trip tickets with directions to the cemetery, and bowed wordlessly.
And they both knew that he really had no reason to come.
He wound up sitting on a park bench two hours later, alternating between puffs and mouthfuls of ramen, trying to satisfy both cravings at the same time. The elder Yamamoto had invited Gokudera for sushi, but any more time spent with that man was going to drive him crazy with silences and wisdom bullshit that he didn't need at the moment.
Or ever.
Another three hours and a carton of nicotine sticks, and Gokudera still hadn't moved from his spot, watching couples and joggers pass by as the lights flickered on with their fluorescent glow. The lamp directly above Gokudera was flickering spasmodically, caught between living and dying. It pissed him off.
He snapped open his cell phone and began thumbing over the names of anyone to contact, except it came up desperately short; besides connections within the family, it had names of girls he never liked and boys who hated leaving a bar without getting thoroughly wasted.
So why was he here again?
"Do ya think so?"
He scoffed lightly, taking a swig before slamming the glass down and pointing his finger at the general direction of the bartender (he couldn't be entirely sure anymore). So it was 3 in the morning, he didn't manage to find a drinking buddy in the end, spent the last five hours arguing with the bartender about retarded faggots that ruin people's lives, and it'll be a miracle if he manages to get to the airport in time for the flight back home, so fucking what? "Why would I say it if I didn't?"
The man shrugged, stacking the last few chairs onto their respective tables. "Lotsa stuff gets confused if it's been said one too many times, boss."
Gokudera growled. "Don't call me that."
"Sure thing, boss."
"I wonder if he's doing fine, wherever he is…" Tsuna smiled faintly, tracing his fingers over the gilded patterns of insignias and crosses in the armrest, talking to no one in particular. Gokudera responded anyways, afraid of the implications if it was left hanging.
"Great. He's doing really great, boss. You should be proud of him."
He faked a smile just in case.
The funeral was fucking sunny.
The classic mafia funeral demanded a day of clouds, rain or a combination of the two but Tsuna insisted, and that was that. All Gokudera really remembered was how the sun managed to glint Tsuna's ring so fucking often, how everything seemed to radiate out in happy, stupid optimism, and how everyone seemed to have the same, fucking half-serene, half-smiling expression. It was sickening.
Two lackeys hung out at the back, the look of cool brash rookies still in training. They spotted the second in command and smirked, joking loudly about suicide bombers and martyrs. He left early complaining of a stomach ache, which wasn't too far from the truth and headed back to the castle.
It would be three days later before he emerged out again. Only to be sent back in.
"You love him." It wasn't a question or an attack, but the bile was already bubbling inside his stomach as soon as he heard the words. Still, he tried to ignore the feeling and Yamamoto's presence, concentrating on the Venetian sunset and the September winds bringing in the laps of water rushing onto the banks of the canals. "It doesn't matter," Gokudera shot back as smoothly as he could, not bothering to take out the cigarette in his mouth to respond properly. "He proposed to Miura last week, I even bought the goddamn ring for him." The shaking in his accomplice's tone was evident and the words were laced with an angry Italian accent, but Yamamoto pretended not to notice.
"But you love him."
"Fuck off."
Yamamoto took two resolute strides, plucked the stick out of the man's mouth, threw it in the canal, and bridged the space between their lips; their noses bumping awkwardly, teeth clacking painfully. He didn't know shit about romance, but it seemed to work in the movies. "But I can't." Cheesy lines too.
But the glare said it all. A shove, a sneer that told him he had just took someone's first kiss, and an extended middle finger with a "fuck you" added on for good measure.
Fuck you. The last thing Yamamoto would ever hear from the attention-starved boy who grew up too fast. He'd changed it, if it would be the last thing he did.
After the funeral, Gokudera had successfully coughed, hacked, and wheezed his way into a two week break. Not only that, but his concentration had drastically gone down to the point where it became difficult to pay attention to anything, the 10th included. Shamal at first laughed and handed him a box of cigarettes.
You owe me, he mouthed, winking.
Dizzy spells became common, extreme fevers and chills racked his frame, along with a killer headache, stomach pains, excessive sweating...
Stress…immune system's been shut down…just a few days…
He laughed bitterly at the diagnosis; no one had a clue what was wrong, did they?
Not even him. Of course not.
He closed his eyes and tried not to die.
"Hey." A hand grasped Gokudera's and he looked up from his prone position. At the age of 20, Sawada Tsunayoshi had successfully secured the position as Vongola's 10th boss, but for the world, Gokudera knew that his boss was still a kid, a boy being left behind by his big brother for reasons too complicated to understand.
"Gokudera…" The face swam into view, quiet and subdued, but it was hard to tell, hard to keep focus. "You're all I have left, you know, just you and me…" Tsuna chuckled, gripping the hand even tighter, and meeting Gokudera's eyes to grace him with the best fucking smile in the world-oh, oh, so maybe he was dead all this time afterall, unless- "So…don't leave, hm?"
Gokudera couldn't do anything except nod and stare back at the honesty in every word, a small smile crossing his face- his first one in months.
And the years of jealousy began to fade away.
She looked beautiful.
Of course she did, Gokudera had already made the promise to shoot himself in the head if they didn't find the perfect girl for the 10th. He seemed to be making that promise a lot lately.
Nevertheless, Gokudera orchestrated the entire wedding as if his life depended on it. Even the bride-to-be's excitement seemed to pale in comparison to the right hand man's, finally giving up and letting him take full responsibility of all the preparations. She was rightfully miffed when it came to dress selection but even then she couldn't turn away his decision. Frills and laces and ribbons with the best textures and fabrics melded into an elegant, flowing apparel. Perfect, she gushed, restraining herself from hugging the stoic man, absolutely perfect.
They took their time with the dress, with Gokudera leaning against an adjacent wall smoking the familiar joint while gazing at the mirror image of the bubbly young woman as she twirled around, twittering excitedly at the seamstress nodding every so often as if she was used to it. Gokudera didn't have the heart to tell the girl that the old woman was from Spain and couldn't understand a word- Japanese, Italian, or otherwise.
"Gokudera-san…" she finally addressed the man, changing to a subdued expression with a touch of a graceful smile tugging at either sides of her mouth. "There are things I could never do for him…" She waved a gloved hand offhandedly as she could; thousands of meanings passed between the two anyways. "So keep him safe."
He grinned. Open. Wide. "You got it."
She turned around and graced him with the second best fucking smile in the world.
Because she really was beautiful, after all.
He found himself more and more often at Yamamoto's grave, sprawled out under the willow tree that the Tenth himself planted a few months ago, despite the cold winter season, complaints, and the frostbite that would inevitably come later on. But in any case, it was to commemorate the man's 25th birthday, if he was still alive. Gokudera tactfully decided not to say anything on the matter.
He thought. And thought. And thought. Because he sure as hell wasn't meditating like that idiot Shamal always told him to. Cigarette butts littered the area, but at least he now had the courtesy to wipe them off the marble later. Sometimes.
Flicking open the carton and taking the first whiff of the tobacco had brought up the time Yamamoto had implied how the nicotine and chemicals were more likely to kill the dynamite king than an enemy assassin was, but fuck that- Gokudera lit up a stick, tossing the box aside and raised a fist with his middle finger standing proudly, a proud grin adorning his face. Wherever that idiot was now, it made him feel slightly better to prove him wrong. And he was going to defy that as long as he could.
Even if it killed him.
END
AN: Ladies and Gentlemen, Yamamoto had performed jumonji giri, even more painful than seppuku (someone cuts your head off for you) because not only do you have to make two cuts versus one, but you also have to sit there afterwards bleeding to death for twenty or so minutes. SOUNDS FUN