Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Poisonous Thinking ❯ Poisonous Thinking ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

 

So, uh, a while back, I needed something different to write, and put a post up on my livejournal saying that I would write a fic of at least 1000 words for the first five people who gave me prompts. This story was the first one, requested by my dear friend Corelle, who asked for a Katekyou Hitman Reborn! story featuring Gokudera and Yamamoto as friends, and with the prompt “frustration.” This is what I came up with.

 

This is meant to be gen/friendshippy, but I suppose it can be interpreted as 8059 (YamaGoku) with slash goggles on.

 

Feedback is really, really awesome, by the way. x3

 

Warnings: Language and violence warning on this one. (Mafia, hi?) Also, spoilers for the TYL/Future Arc.

 

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Poisonous Thinking

 

For the first time in a very long time, Yamamoto Takeshi feels absolutely helpless, and he hates it.

 

He's holed up in a deserted warehouse behind a bullet-ridden concrete wall, fighting for his life, out of ammunition and separated from his sword and ring boxes. Slumped against the wall next to him is Gokudera, who still isn't conscious and is bleeding badly from a pair of bullet wounds, one in his abdomen, and a second matching one high in his chest. Yamamoto worries, checking to make sure his friend is still breathing every few moments. He isn't faring much better with a bullet hole of his own in his thigh; the makeshift bandage he tore from the tail of his dress shirt has already soaked through.

 

Yamamoto doesn't know where three of the other five men they brought with them to the meeting are; two of died when the gunfire broke out once the meeting turned sour. There's a sinking feeling in the back of Yamamoto's mind that the meeting with the smaller mafia family has always been intended to fail, no matter what they did.

 

He isn't sure what is worse - the fact that they've come out of this meeting with casualties and zero chance of success, or the fact that Tsuna is wholly unaware of the fact that two of his most-trusted guardians aren't there to protect him in case the gunfire spreads to Vongola turf. That thought makes Yamamoto's jaw tense nervously, especially since he knows he can't do anything about it in his current situation.

 

A pained cough next to him jolts him, and he turns with worried eyes to cast a glance over at Gokudera. The half-Italian young man is staring right back at him, eyes narrowed and glazed, but determined. Yamamoto puts his gun down, grits his teeth again and ignores his leg's protest as he shifts to move in front of Gokudera, hands moving to check bleeding wounds. Gokudera slaps his hands away.

 

“We-” The words are cut off by a hiss, and Gokudera shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. “-have to... warn the Tenth... in danger...”

 

“I know,” Yamamoto replies, placing a hand on Gokudera's shoulder. “They might have been after him all along.” He takes off his jacket and presses it against the bleeding wound in Gokudera's abdomen. Gokudera grunts in pain, but places a hand over Yamamoto's on the jacket, as if to say he could handle it himself.

 

“M-Mobile,” Gokudera says, shifting to the side. “Back pocket.”

 

Yamamoto wants to kick himself for not thinking of that sooner; his own mobile went missing as soon as the talks began going sour. He reaches down and pulls Gokudera's cell out of his back pocket by the charms dangling from it. His hands are slick with blood and shaking, making it difficult to flip the phone open and dial. Growling, he nearly drops the phone when Gokudera places a calming hand on his forearm.

 

Yamamoto distantly notes that it's odd, how their roles can reverse so quickly. Gokudera's usually the one panicking; the fact that he isn't makes Yamamoto worry even more. He pulls Tsuna's number out of the contacts list and calls it. The phone jumps directly to voicemail, and Yamamoto snaps the phone shut with a frustrated growl.

 

“It's off,” he mutters.

 

“G-Go to him,” Gokudera says around a fresh cigarette. Yamamoto hadn't even seen him light it. “I'll... hold them off.”

 

Yamamoto blinks and resists the urge to laugh. It's an inappropriate response, but he's panicking even further and he knows it. As serious as Gokudera tries to make himself look, it's obvious that he can barely stand; how the hell does he expect to fend off an enemy family?

 

“No. You're coming with me.”

 

Gokudera reaches forward and grabs the collar of Yamamoto's dress shirt, face twisting in pain as he tries to sit up further. “Don't be... an idiot! I'll slow... you down.”

 

“You're not staying here,” Yamamoto insists, but Gokudera's already shaking his head.

 

“D-Damn it, you... fucking idiot,” he hisses. “The Tenth is... first priority, y-you should know that... by now.”

 

And without saying another word, Gokudera takes as deep a breath as he can and pushes himself unsteadily on his feet, relying heavily on the wall for support, letting Yamamoto's blood-soaked suit jacket fall to the ground. When Yamamoto moves forward to lend him a hand, Gokudera glares at him and whips out several sticks of dynamite, daring him to stop him. Then he turns, edges towards the end of the wall - leaving a streak of blood every time his hand presses against the concrete - and lights the dynamite with his cigarette before tossing the live explosives around the wall.

 

A flash of light and a cloud of dust accompany the deep, chest-rattling boom of the explosion, and through the smoke, Yamamoto sees Gokudera smirking.

 

“Go.”

 

It's then that Yamamoto knows exactly what Gokudera is thinking. There aren't many things that make Yamamoto angry as hell, but damn it pisses him off. Has Gokudera not learned a goddamned thing in all these years?

 

“You damned fool,” he finally snaps. Gokudera's smirk is gone now, and he's blinking in shock at Yamamoto's outburst. “Didn't Dr. Shamal teach you better than that? Who's going to be Tsuna's right hand man if I leave you here to die?”

 

Gokudera winces, this time from a recollection of words he no doubt is hearing in his own mind. “We... don't have a choice, baseball freak.”

 

Without even blinking, he replies, “But I do, and I'm not going to let you throw your life away like that. Tsuna would say the same; he even said so to me, once.”

 

And with that, he grabs Gokudera by the waist and tosses him over his shoulder. Gokudera's cry of surprise and pain sends small stabs of guilt into Yamamoto's chest, but he doesn't let them stop him as he uses the smoke screen from Gokudera's dynamite attack to hobble towards the back door. Gokudera slumps against his shoulder along the way - a confirmation that the half-Italian boy's body has taken more damage than it needs to - and Yamamoto grits his teeth against the pain in his thigh. Once outside in the alleyway, he takes a moment to catch his breath and search for a way back.

 

There is a car towards the entrance of the alley; it's not Vongola, but Yamamoto has picked up a few new tricks in his time spent 'playing' Mafia. He knows it's not a game now - damn it, how could this be a game? - but hot-wiring is hot-wiring, and it will do. It's unlocked, thank the gods, and Yamamoto carefully deposits Gokudera in the passenger seat and leans the seat back before he limps around the car and gets in the driver's seat.

 

With a groan, Yamamoto realizes that his driving leg is the one that's been wounded. It hurts to switch between the gas and the brake, but he thinks he can make it as long as they don't wind up in a chase. He fiddles with the wires until the engine rumbles to life, and he pulls the black sedan out of the alleyway, driving as carefully as he can manage to avoid any unwanted attention. He doesn't breathe until he's made it six blocks without anyone obviously following him.

 

And then Yamamoto stops breathing again, when he looks over and sees that Gokudera's lips are turning blue.

 

“Gokudera!” he calls, hoping for a response and getting none. They're still at least a mile away from the Tenth's current residence, and the hospital is going to ask far too many questions about a gunshot victim. He pulls over, checking Gokudera's throat for a pulse and finding a weak, thready thrum under his fingers. “Come on, you can't do this to me now!”

 

Gokudera whimpers breathlessly, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids and back arching in agony. With a muttered curse, Yamamoto shifts the gears into drive again and speeds down the road, feeling like he's going only a kilometer an hour when he's going a hundred and ninety. Two blocks out, Yamamoto can see Tsuna's residence now, and it doesn't look like it's been touched by anyone else. He tries hard not to hope for the best, because as far as the day's luck is concerned, he shouldn't be surprised if they're all dead by nightfall.

 

He nearly crashes the vehicle into the main gate as he pulls up. The guards see him, take one look at Gokudera, and scramble to open the gates, one of them yelling into a phone. He doesn't wait to see what they have to say before he zips through the opening gate, scratching one of the side mirrors on the metal. Up ahead at the main estate building, there are several doctors coming out to meet them, a stretcher shortly behind them. Once he slams the breaks to a stop next to them, Yamamoto feels like he can almost relax; the doctors can take care of the rest of this.

 

He doesn't realize just how much blood he's also lost until he passes out.

 

--

 

It's been three days, and Gokudera's doing better, the doctors say. Yamamoto finally insists on being able to go see him as soon as he's allowed to use crutches instead of a wheelchair, though he's sure that Tsuna has already been several times.

 

Tsuna still hasn't forgiven himself for worrying them so much; his phone had died during a meeting when they'd tried to call. The young Vongola boss still hasn't come to terms with just how dangerous his guardians' job really is; he understands it just fine, but he can't stand seeing his friends hurt for his sake.

 

This time, Yamamoto can't help but agree with him. Gokudera looks pale and exhausted as he lays in the hospital bed, but is still breathing evenly, even if it's through a mask. And all Yamamoto can think about is how unnecessary it is that Gokudera is so badly injured. When Gokudera stirs, Yamamoto straightens, shifting his crutches so that they're easier to rest against.

 

“Hey,” he says with a smile.

 

“Go 'way. I don't want to talk to you.” Gokudera's voice is gravelly, but not weak.

 

Yamamoto knows exactly what Gokudera's talking about, and he laughs; some things don't change. “It couldn't be helped,” he replies, a mockery of sheepishness creeping into his tone. “I wasn't about to let you lay there and martyr yourself when we were able to get out just fine.”

 

“If the Tenth had been in real danger-” Gokudera begins, but Yamamoto cuts him off.

 

“It still doesn't justify you sacrificing yourself needlessly.” Yamamoto sighs. “You know, Gokudera, if you throw your life down now, who will be there to help me when... when that time comes? To prevent it from happening?”

 

Gokudera turns his head away from Yamamoto, and says nothing. He gets it, but it still isn't sinking in the way Yamamoto wishes it would.

 

“Keep it up, and you really will die one of these days,” Yamamoto says seriously. “If you want it that badly, it'll happen. It works the same way with sports - work hard enough at becoming a pro, and you'll eventually get there.”

 

“What would you know about it?” Gokudera snaps sullenly.

 

“I tried once, remember.”

 

Gokudera stiffened again, and Yamamoto shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed.

 

After a moment, “Your life isn't that worthless, Gokudera.”

 

A glare, a sigh, and Gokudera looks resigned. “I get it, okay?”

 

Yamamoto smiles. “Good. Because I didn't want to have to keep talking until this sushi goes bad.” He holds up a wrapped bento.

 

“What is it with you Japanese people and your raw fish?” Gokudera groans.

 

“Oh, Bianchi was here earlier while you were asleep - said something about making lunch later,” Yamamoto says, scratching his head in thought.

 

Gokudera's eyes go wide as saucers, and now he's looking at the bento of sushi hopefully. His stomach growls loudly, and Yamamoto laughs again, knowing that Gokudera actually does like his sushi, but still is too stubborn to admit it.

 

After lunch, Gokudera can barely stay awake; Yamamoto waves a farewell to Gokudera's grumbled one, and cleans up the mess while Gokudera drifts off. He takes one last look at his friend before he turns to leave.

 

Part of Yamamoto's spirit won't let itself feel relieved at the return to normalcy between the two of them, because he knows this won't be the last time Gokudera throws his life on the line for Tsuna. As he walks away from Gokudera's hospital room, Yamamoto can only hope that he will be there for damage control the next time Tsuna's self-proclaimed right-hand man does just that. It's what friends do, isn't it?

 

Fin.

 

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