Hello!
I felt like writing an angsty Gokudera-centric oneshot. This actually started out as a plan for a really fluffy, angsty, smutty 5927 thing, then it turned into a Gokudera x fem!human Uri, then it became this, which is unfortunately like neither of those things 0.o Wow I feel like I have writing ADD or something.
Anyway, please enjoy it. I don't own KHR or anything related to it.
Oh, yes, and the translations for the Italian dialogue are at the end. And also, I don't know why they'd have melon bread in Italy, so don't ask me where that came from.
0o.o0o.o0
Warily, he glanced about, his swaying mossy irises never to disturb his heavy eyes. His hand reached out and grazed what he wanted. Just some bread. That's all. That was all he needed, all he'd asked for. With his other hand he took the meager change out of his wallet, which he had swiped at a flea market in a suburb of Milan about seven months ago, and it had started falling apart about six months ago. Tragically, 63 cents wasn't enough to buy any decent food. He sighed inwardly and quietly began to open the bread bag.
One by one, he tore clumps of it off, flattened them and shoved them into the pair of pockets at the front of his raggedy sweatshirt, until he figured he'd had his fill and sealed the bag back up. The loaf of bread looked completely untouched once he close-tied it and turned it sideways. There wasn't much else on the shelf, so hiding it behind something else wasn't an option.
He scoped his surroundings out once again. If he only came in, "browsed" the aisles, bought nothing and left, the clerk would be suspicious. If he tried to sneak out… well, that was a no; the only door in or out of the place, aside from the fire exit that would immediately set off an alarm and give him away, was right at the front, by the counter with the clerk who would surely notice anyone coming or leaving. (After all, he had learned from years of doing this never to underestimate a store worker's vigilance.) He needed some way out of there, though, some mode of exit that was subtle enough…
There, at the end of the aisle, he spotted it: packs of gum, 50 cents each.
Hayato made his way to the gum, then to the counter, as casually as he could. Then he set it down in front of the cashier. "Appena questo."*
The cashier gave him a sideways look, cocking his head and waving his beard around by moving his chin back and forth like he was chewing on something, and held the look briefly, and even though Hayato knew the man was now a little leery of him he still kept his composure.
Finally, the clerk took it. "50 centesimi,"** he said.
Hayato dug in his dilapidated wallet again for the money. He carefully counted out every single coin and dropped them one at a time into the cashier's open hand until the payment sufficed. Then, after being rung up, he grabbed the gum away from the man behind the counter and sauntered out of the shop.
Down the street, through the thinning crowd. Don't attract attention to yourself. Just keep walking. Pace subconsciously quickening, heart racing, frown deepening – slow down! Remind yourself why you're here; you can't give yourself away just yet. Just make it around the corner, and then you can run. Go! Not too fast! Inconspicuousness – do I have to spell it out for you? Jesus Christ. Here, put your hands in your pockets. Maybe chew the gum, too. Yeah, good idea. Gah, watch your step, kid! You almost ran into that guy. There's the corner, there's the corner, there's the corner, almost there. Five steps, three steps, one more step, run! Now, now you can go!
Hayato raced across three blocks, through the people, his well-traveled feet pounding on the stone sidewalk, just as stealthy as a shadow. When he finally reached the alleyway he had claimed for himself for the past three days, he hid behind the dumpster and spat out the gum and took out the flattened clumps of stolen bread and ate them, slowly. It tasted dirty and metallic from his filthy hands, and he realized it was melon bread – he hated melon bread – but he didn't care.
He was so hungry.
One wouldn't be able to tell from looking at the boy, with his long, tangled, greasy silver hair, those big black bags under his eyes, the tired and desperate expression he wore on his face, the dirt and the scars and the scrapes on his skin and the holey, disgusting clothes that hadn't been washed in God knew how long, that Hayato Gokudera was once privileged, from a rich family. But he had since been reduced to a poor, homeless boy with no family to come to and a ruthless nicotine addiction that he could not afford to satisfy.
For as long as he could remember, there had been loneliness in his life. Loneliness, oh bittersweet loneliness. In his innocence all he had ever wanted was to be alone; now that he was 12, but felt 40, his loner nature surely showed, but he didn't want it.
He breathed deeply and leaned up against the dingy metal of the dumpster. He had spent the past four years of his life traveling Italy on foot. He'd seen everything in that beautiful country, from the biggest, most bustling cities to the smallest farming villages and everywhere in between. Each place he visited made him fall deeper and deeper in love with lady Italia, his home country that he had once detested. He had met so many people in his travels, rich and poor, men and women, and had discovered one thing, if nothing else, about Italians – perhaps about all the citizens of the world: everyone has a story to tell. And listening to them would make anyone wiser.
And as he bit into the sweet, befouled bread, crouching in the shadows, he silently thanked the good Lord for his circumstances.
A soft moaning sound drifted to him. He paused and pressed his ear up against the side of the dumpster. Yes, there was surely something in there making a sound.
Curious, he put the half-eaten piece of bread back in his pocket and stood. He knew from street experience to always be cautious, yet he tossed this instinct aside. His balance shifted as he braced himself for any crazy thing that could be in there to attack him. (He knew there were people after him already, anyway.) He set his fingers under the lid and lifted it.
Inside there, atop a mountain of trash and rotting food, was a little gray fuzzball of a thing. It was the whiner, the moaner; that thing was making those sad, soft noises.
Warily, he glanced about, his swaying mossy irises never to disturb his heavy eyes. His hand reached out and grazed what he wanted. Just a kitten. That's all. He was all it needed, all it had ever asked for. Alone and unwanted, barely clinging to its new life, Hayato gently took the creature in his hands, sat and brought it to his warm lap. He stroked it gently, its fur like silk under his rough fingers. The poor thing hadn't even opened its eyes or unfolded its ears yet.
The small wails let out from its strained voice tore his heart in two. He swallowed hard and drew the baby to his chest, trying to mimic the caring touch of its mother's tongue. It was shivering and struggling to breathe. Hayato bit his bottom lip and he could feel his eyes start to sting and get wet.
"Oh, l'anima povera," he whispered to it. "Desidero che tutto le potrei dare." He lifted the kitten to his lips and lightly kissed it, and talking into its fur he said, "Abbiamo qualcosa in comune."***
He slouched heavily up against the dumpster wall and set the baby cat back down in his lap, one hand still on its back while the other rooted around in his pocket for the smallest bit of the melon bread. He crushed it down even further, too, and did everything else he could to soften it up.
Then he held it in front of the kitten's mewing mouth.
It took a bit of time and some gentle force for the cat to finally understand the concept of food. Hayato wished he had milk or water or something for the poor baby to drink. Maybe he'd steal some later for it.
Once it ate a few crumbs' worth, though, and rejected any more, Hayato ate the rest. He pet it again, gingerly, smiling, parallel streams of tears gracing the edges of his mouth.
"La nominerò il Melone," he breathed, "E lei starà bene."****
0o.o0o.o0
* = Just this
** = 50 cents
*** = Oh, poor soul… I wish I could give you everything… You and I have something in common
**** = I'm going to name you Melon… And you're going to be all right.