Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Midnight Cowboys ❯ Midnight Cowboys ( One-Shot )

A/N: for erisabesu. Loosely interpreted and having absolutely nothing to do with the book or movie seeing as how I've yet to be acquainted with either. I, uh, flexed my inner-Tarantino fan on this one. Also, I've been unhealthily obsessed with Beck lyrics lately. I apologize.

Title: Midnight Cowboys

Pairing: 5980

Rating: R

Warnings: definitely more gangster than supernatural here. XD language, implied violence

 

--

 

lay it on to the dawn
everything we done is wrong
I'll be lonesome when I'm gone
lay it on to the dawn

 

--

 

“Shut up.” Gokudera growls and again kicks the man lying prostrate at his feet. A string of coughs follow which trails off into a groan a few moments later. “Here.” He tosses Yamamoto the duct tape and pulls his pack of smokes from his breast pocket. The look the idiot gives him is indecipherable, and he stares back in barely restrained irritation. Yes, I want you to tie him up; I'm done with this fool. Seconds pass, and the expression shifts back to Yamamoto's usual `yeah, okay, whatever' smile. Then he goes to work.

 

As he lights up and takes a long, slow drag, Gokudera glances down the alley to where it opens into the street perpendicular. It's a quiet night which can be either a blessing or a pain in the ass if that one car driving by happens to be a cop, and while that wouldn't be a problem, it would be a terrible inconvenience. As it passes, though, a beer bottle flies out the window and shatters against the sidewalk. He rolls his eyes. What a complete fucking waste of time. There's no adrenaline rush, no violence-fueled figurative hard-on to accompany nicotine-induced bliss. There's nothing but disgust at the sniveling target on the ground behind him, begging Yamamoto to let him go. They hadn't even had to draw weapons. Pathetic.

 

With a sigh, he turns and opens a lapel giving their noisy guest a good view of the gun tucked into his waistband. “For everyone's sake, shut the hell up already.” And like the good partners they've become over the years, Yamamoto chooses that moment to swoop down with a last piece of tape to cover the man's slack - and thankfully silent - mouth.

 

Gokudera pops the trunk, and together they toss their cargo inside. A brief argument ensues over whether or not they should give him a flashlight. (They don't.) Then they're on their way.

 

He lets Yamamoto drive. Discontent has taken the form of lethargy, and Gokudera slumps in the passenger, eyes shut, cigarette half-ash between his lips.

 

The first half of the trip is thankfully silent, but all too soon a thumping starts resonating from the trunk. He ignores it on principle, but it steadily grows louder, to the point where even Yamamoto is no longer able to let it go.

 

“We should probably do something about that, huh?”

 

He asks out of habit, because Gokudera is and has always been a control freak, but also because it's a way for Yamamoto to gauge his mood. For that reason, Gokudera doesn't bother calling him out on it. It's become a part of their routine, not to mention the suggestion alone is enough to emphasize just how much the idiot has changed over the years from the ignorant kid `playing mafia' to the dangerous man sitting next to him. It fills him with something like nostalgia - for both his early childhood listening in on as much of his father's business as he could and for the men they've grown to be. It's enough to make Gokudera smirk and cast a sideways glance toward his companion.

 

“Fuck it. We're almost there.” If this were a serious job, he'd be more tempted to care. All that matters right then, though, is whatever will get him back to the hotel room (and his date with a bottle of bourbon) the fastest. Yamamoto seems to sense this and does little more than grin at him from behind the wheel.

 

When they pull into the driveway of the Varia Mansion, the banging that had ceased at some point then returns with a vengeance. Too little, too late. Yamamoto buzzes the intercom and announces their arrival, and soon, they're pulling into garage five where two lackeys they've never seen before meet them to retrieve the delivery. Neither asks any questions - if Tsuna agreed to relegate two of his best men to shit work for Varia, there has to be a reason for it. Gokudera could speculate: Xanxas being too arrogant to send his own men out for something so lowly calls in a favor. It's possible. More likely, it's a favor to Tsuna - deeds the Tenth doesn't want on his hands or the hands of his men. The thought of being coddled like that leaves a sick feeling in his stomach. He'd gladly follow Tsuna into the pits of Hell - if only he'd lead them there. Instead of getting too angry about it (because that would be a waste of time - Tsuna is Tsuna is Tsuna; there's no changing him or the way he does business,) he bids their guest a farce of a farewell and climbs back in the car.

 

Then they're once again out on the blackened street. Gokudera sends a quick text - Done, lights another cigarette, and loosens his noose of a tie. He can feel Yamamoto's eyes on him, which can only mean two things at this point in the evening.

 

Preemptively: “Don't want to stop anywhere on the way. Drop me off first if you're hungry.”

 

The idiot's eyes curve into a smile. “Sure.”

 

When they pull into the parking lot, though, instead of stopping at the front door, Gokudera understands. Option 2 it is then.

 

He says nothing during the elevator's ascent, the long trek down the never-ending hallway, or even as Yamamoto follows him inside the room - a double. He does raise an eyebrow when, while they empty change and keys, lighters and guns from pockets, a roll of duct tape is set down as well. Not long ago, the idiot's grin would've been impossibly wide, sheepish even, but the face leering back at him is just a little too knowing, though, comfortable even. Gokudera wets his lips and hangs his jacket over the back of the chair.

 

“Don't tell me tying up that pudgy, bald bastard gave you a hard-on.” Face twisted in disapproval, he toes his shoes off.

 

Yamamoto laughs loud and carefree, a throw-back to his younger self that he's never managed to shake, and starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. “I was thinking …”

 

“Always dangerous.” It's a weak dig, but there are firmly established precedents to abide by. They may be about to fuck again, but this is out of boredom, not an adrenaline high, not need. He could just as easily watch some pay per view and drink himself into a stupor (the original plan.) Hell, he might still do it anyway, out of principle.

 

His partner makes a face but continues as if he hadn't been interrupted. “How you'd look bound and gagged and trying to kill me.”

 

At least he's realistic, Gokudera broods. Because he would kill him. Messily.

 

He quickly stubs his cigarette out on the table - goddamn no smoking hotels and their lack of ashtrays - and yanks Yamamoto to him by his tie. “Come near me with that shit …” He loosens the knot, yanks it over the idiot's head - and if it catches his ear unnecessarily, too fucking bad - and chunks it across the room. “And I'll tie you up in the corner and make you watch me jerk off instead.”

 

Yamamoto's hands find Gokudera's belt and work furiously. “Heh, a guy can dream, can't he?”

 

Something about that statement sounds suspiciously like what he's been trying to avoid with this… thing, this not-a-relationship all along. It's the reason they don't talk about it. Acknowledgement means change, and putting words to something creates expectations. Both of which are death.

 

“No,” he growls and bites the big, dumb idiot's lip. His trousers fall to his calves, then they're tumbling back against the closest bed, all talk a distant memory.

 

--

 

He does, in fact, drink and watch tv afterwards (or at least sit there with eyes glazed over at some ridiculous Italian melodrama; he couldn't recall the characters' names if his life depended on it.) Yamamoto is a silent presence next to him, though why he even bothers, he has no idea. The idiot speaks exactly ten words of Italian, seven of which are profanities, all taught by him. Gokudera doesn't waste time pondering the significance of that. Instead, he grabs his pack of cigarettes from the side table. He has two left after this one and makes a mental note to pick some up at the airport when they leave in a few hours. After lighting it, he tosses the pack and lighter to the side and takes a long drag.

 

The smoke rises and curls from the stick between his fingers, ghost-like, ethereal. If he were a poet (and much more intoxicated,) he might be tempted to make some lame analogy about how it relates to his current situation. Except that's not quite right, is it? But he's not a poet or completely fucking wasted, so he pours himself another glass of bourbon. And then he holds it up and catches himself thinking something that suspiciously sounds like kanpai. Shit, maybe he's drunker than he realized. He turns and glares at Yamamoto accusingly before pouring the drink down his throat.

 

Yamamoto only smirks and shifts so that he's lying down instead of leaning back against the headboard. And when the adjusting of his pillow reveals someone's sock, the idiot throws it and hits Gokudera in the face.

 

And he knows he's drunk when his only retaliation is to laugh and throw it back.

 

 

 

 

 

End