Title: Womp Rats
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Prompt: serial killers
Word Count: 620
Summary: Maybe you really can’t go home again. Maybe you just don’t want to.
A/N: Written for hc_bingo. Masterpost with my game card is here.
Gokudera had killed his first target before he was ten. Yamamoto had, to the best of Gokudera’s knowledge, never killed anyone until much more recently.
So why, knowing that, was he, Gokudera Hayato, the Smoking Bomb, turning his intestines inside out in this back alley while Yamamoto calmly finished off the last of their opponents? It was embarrassing. It was beyond embarrassing. It was mortifying. It was some other huge word that he couldn’t think of right now, because all his attention was on his stomach and the things coming out of it.
The hand on his back brought his arm up, skull cannon ready to shoot. Yamamoto’s sheepish laugh almost made him shoot despite seeing who it was. Instead, he wiped his mouth roughly and pushed himself to his feet, shaking off the baseball idiot’s offers of help.
“Hey, now, Gokudera, you might be hurt or something. Slow down.”
“I’m not hurt. Back off.”
And for some reason, Yamamoto did, trailing behind him while he stalked back to the car. Of course, neither of them were technically legal to drive in Italy, but considering what they’d just been doing, getting pulled over for driving without a license was probably the least of their worries.
As far as the various Guardians’ parents were concerned, the lot of them were on a summer school program in Italy. Tsuna and the rest of the tenth generation Vongola had come to prove things to the Ninth and the other Families that they couldn’t do from Japan. It wasn’t supposed to go bad so quickly. But what had ever gone right for them?
This was actually supposed to be their downtime, just a stupid sightseeing trip to some of Gokudera’s old stomping grounds. That’s what Yamamoto kept insisting, anyway. Gokudera had just wanted to see who was still there that owed him favors. Not that many people had owed a punk kid favors at the time, but now he was a punk kid with connections, so it never hurt to keep in touch.
They’d gotten ambushed by a group who’d never gotten around to identifying their Family connections. Maybe they were like he’d been, just hired nobodies without any real attachments. He’d believe it. They obviously weren’t prepared to do anything but shoot a couple kids in the back, which meant no one had told them that those ‘kids’ were at all dangerous.
Or maybe they’d just underestimated the two of them like everyone else did. Either way, they needed to tell the Tenth, and more importantly the Ninth. He’d need to know about this before news leaked out some other way and started painting the Vongola in a bad light.
Gokudera groaned, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel and batting Yamamoto’s hands away automatically.
He knew exactly the kind of light people would try to paint this in. The high and mighty Vongola, protectors of the poor and downtrodden, nothing more than simple murderers. Not in Italy for two full weeks before they’re going around killing good, native sons. Foreigners. Not one of us.
The halfbreed didn’t count.
He groaned again, punching the dashboard to keep from punching Yamamoto. Now that he was thinking again, his stomach had stopped rebeling. Obviously, he was just out of practice, having been with Tsuna who abhorred any violence, no matter how necessary, let alone relatively senseless killing like what’d they’d done.
His mind again shied away from contemplating why it hadn’t seemed to bother Yamamoto at all.
He shifted the car into gear, pulling out without another glance at his old neighborhood. He rather obviously wasn’t welcome anymore, and good riddance. The whole place smelled like rats and sewage, anyway.
They had work to do.
This entry was originally posted at http://envious-muses.dreamwidth.org/18887.html.