The landing was anything but smooth.
"On behalf of Pegasus Airlines we would like to welcome you to Istanbul! We apologize for this slightly turbulent landing caused by the high-speed winds of –"
"Slightly turbulent my ass." Gokudera's fingers started fumbling with the tip of his tie. It had been over twelve hours since his last cigarette.
"Is that what she said?" Yamamoto asked. He barely spoke any English and didn't understand a word of Turkish.
Gokudera decided to ignore him.
As they waited for their luggage to arrive Gokudera checked his cell phone for calls or messages from the Tenth. He never actually switched his phone off.
Yamamoto cracked up. "Maybe it was your phone causing all that turbulence!"
He gave Gokudera a big bro-hug with one arm as he turned his own cell phone on.
The look Gokudera gave him could be bottled up and sold as rat poison. The smell of cheap perfume and coffee drifted in from the Duty Free. Yamamoto's stomach rumbled loudly. The rotating platform started to move and, shortly after, luggage started circulating. Yamamoto's bag showed up first, followed by Gokudera's.
There was a black car waiting outside for them. A driver wearing a black suit with the Vongola's golden crest on his lapel escorted them out of the airport.
"Good evening, my name Toghrul, I be your driver." His heavy Turkish accent almost caused Gokudera to pop an artery.
"Good evening."
They handed him their bags. The massive Turk took both at the same time and dumped them into the trunk unceremoniously. Gokudera flinched at the thought of those explosives being mishandled by such a neanderthal. The mid-April air was cool and clean, causing Gokudera to ache for a cigarette. He asked the driver if he could smoke in the car.
"I hoping mister say that, I smoke very happy too." The Turk smiled as he lit a cigarette for himself.
"Oh great, two smokers." Yamamoto rolled his window down.
"You no smoke mister?" The driver asked Yamamoto.
Yamamoto gave Gokudera a helpless glance.
"He doesn't speak English and no, he doesn't smoke either. How far is our hotel anyway?"
"Ah, your hotel very nice, yes, very nice. In front of the Galata tower, very closely to the Istiklal Avenue. You have very beautiful view of the Hagia Sophia from there. With this traffic it take forty minutes." The driver answered.
Yamamoto waited for a translation.
Gokudera sighed.
The fancy black car drove away from the airport, through the highway and across a large bridge. The sun turned into a dark crimson orb over the city. Yamamoto dozed off, exhausted from the long flight. They drove through busy streets crowded with stores and restaurants on either side, catching a glimpse of a mosque every now and then. Gokudera had ignorantly assumed that all Turkish women would be walking around in packs of two and three wearing headscarves and was surprised to find young women walking around in regular Western-style clothing with a minority of older women covering their hair. What amused him the most was the sight of men walking around in pairs, holding arms or even hand in hand.
The car drove away from all the commotion and made its way uphill into a quieter part of the city. The street was paved with stone and pleasant little houses of three to four stories lined either side. They drove up to a medieval-looking tower of yellow limestone in front of a small plaza. The driver announced that they had reached their destination.
Gokudera shook Yamamoto's shoulder, causing him to jerk his head into an upright position, looking around in a dazed confusion.
"We're here," Gokudera announced, stepping out of the car.
The happy Turk carried both bags to the reception and wished Gokudera and Yamamoto a "happy staying".
"Welcome to the Hyacinth Hotel!" Said the woman at the reception counter. Her accent was bearable.
They were taken up to their room – 27, to Gokudera's amusement – on the second floor and given their purple access cards. The usher – whose name Gokudera couldn't pronounce – opened the door with his own master card and showed them around. The room was small. Very small, compared to the other rooms the guardians had gotten during their missions. There were two beds in the room, separated by a small night stand holding a lamp. There were three walls; the fourth was a window from ceiling to carpeted floor. Their majestic view was a part of the harbor, the lights of the city on the other side of the Bosporus, but mostly yellow brick since the frigging Galata Tower stood right outside their window. The plaza in front of the hotel, at the base of the tower, was crowded with some Latin-Americans playing music from their phones and dancing. Street cats dashed from one side to the other, scaring American tourists.
"Awesome!" Yamamoto's smile stretched from one ear to the other.
The usher disappeared without a warning, leaving their bags near the door.
Gokudera checked out the bathroom which had – other than a toilet, of course – two sinks; a rack of fluffy white towels; a bowl full of single-use bottles of shampoo, body gel, soap, and a sewing kit; and a shower cabin with glass doors.
Gokudera lit a cigarette after discovering that the huge window could be opened up. He could – quite literally – put his hand out and touch the wall of the Tower.
Yamamoto started flicking through the channels on the TV.
"Man, everything's in Turkish. What a strange language!" He laughed.
"What did you expect? The NHK in Turkey?" Gokudera scanned the menu for room service.
Yamamoto ordered a hot chocolate and baklava, earning him a comment from Gokudera condemning him to a future of diabetes.
Gokudera ordered a steak and a local salad with a name he couldn't pronounce, and a bottle of red wine.
Yamamoto stripped out of his suit and into a simple pair of blue pajama pants with no shirt. Gokudera calmly hung his own suit and put it in the small closet near the door and changed into a light red T-shirt and black pajama pants. An elderly woman showed up shortly after with their meals on metallic trays. They enjoyed their meals in their own beds, watching a subbed version of Cloud Atlas from the Pay Per View selection.
Yamamoto was soon confused by the movie and ended up falling asleep with his tray full of empty plates dangerously balancing on his stomach. Gokudera was fascinated by the movie and watched it until the very end, thankful for the sleeping Yamamoto unable to see his teary eyes during the most emotional scenes. As the credits rolled Gokudera turned to Yamamoto, sleeping on the bed to his left, the one closest to the window, not a meter away from him.
Gokudera put his own tray outside the door before kneeling over Yamamoto to lift the tray. Yamamoto tossed in his sleep, his left arm smacking Gokudera on the side and almost causing him to drop the tray.
"Che cazzo…" He cursed in Italian.
He left the tray outside the door only to return to the disturbing image of a shirtless Yamamoto sprawled all over his bed, snoring lightly.
"It's gonna be a long week." Gokudera sighed.
He moved over to the desk and opened his briefcase, which could only be opened with Storm Flames from his ring, and went on to reading the documents inside. According to their instructions, they'd be meeting up with the Boss of the Tüccar Famiglia at a safe-house to discuss a possible allegiance with the Vongola Famiglia and afterwards –depending on the answer – they'd share a glass of champagne and be done with their mission.
But as of right now, the silverhead thought, I must sleep.
Gokudera was absolutely sure Mukuro had made their hotel arrangements – the lady at reception had the unmistakable purple irises of someone under Mukuro's power – and Gokudera found himself hating the illusionist for it.
He probably finds this funny.
Gokudera slid-forced himself under the tightly-wrapped sheets, thankful for Yamamoto being unable to see his struggle. Hotel beds, go figure.

Gokudera was woken up the next morning by the sound of Yamamoto trying to contain his laughter. He tossed around in his bed, surprised to see Yamamoto fully awake, sitting cross-legged in bed, watching TV with wireless headphones.
Gokudera tried to make his way out of bed with dignity, annoyed to find himself firmly constrained by bed sheets.
"Morning," Yamamoto said with a smile. Gokudera grunted in response, drifting into the shower. He felt groggy and jetlagged as he showered. He slapped his forehead in frustration upon realizing that he hadn't brought his clothes into the bathroom with him. He wrapped a towel around himself and tried to seem casual as he made his way towards the closet and started searching through his bag for a fresh pair of underwear and a shirt. Yamamoto glanced over and giggled at Gokudera's sudden awkwardness.
"Baseball idiot," Gokudera said, frowning, "go take a shower while I change. We'll be late."
Yamamoto switched the TV off and walked over to the bathroom as he scratched his bare stomach with a smile. Gokudera waited to hear the shower come on before daring to drop his towel. He changed into his suit and had started combing his silver hair when Yamamoto emerged from the bathroom wearing most of his clothes. Most.
They finished changing and went to the restaurant up in the roof. Breakfast included hard-boiled eggs, pickles, dried-up dates, coffee and bread. Yamamoto tried using his phone to translate "strawberry jam" into Turkish for the waiter but failed miserably.
Once they were done with breakfast, Yamamoto and Gokudera made their way down to the lobby. The lady receptionist walked over as if on cue.
"Misters," she said, "your ride is here."
Yamamoto glanced over at Gokudera, confused.
"C'mon," he said, translating for Yamamoto.
Toghrul, their driver from the night before, was waiting for them outside. Other than a pair of dark shades, there was no apparent difference from his outfit and the one he had worn the day before.
They drove off through the sunlit chaos of Istanbul, making their way along the Bosporus and into a high-end neighborhood about a thirty-minute ride away. They stopped in front of what seemed like a large gated community. The driver left his ID at the entrance and the heavy wrought-iron gates parted.
"Now listen up, baseball idiot," Gokudera said, turning towards Yamamoto and tossing his unfinished cigarette out the window, "I do all the talking. You just sit back and smile whenever someone glances your way."
Yamamoto shrugged and smiled. "It's not like I can actually say anything they'll understand anyway."
They drove up to the largest house at the end of the small road surrounded by gardens on both sides. The thoughtfully-carved door of yellow wood was opened by a thin young servant with long black hair. She didn't say anything, yet Yamamoto and Gokudera followed her to a large living room on the second floor. A large, muscular man with a balding head and a thick beard greeted them with a handshake. Enormous rings of pure gold decorated each of his nine fingers – the ring finger of his right hand was missing, resulting in a very odd-feeling handshake.
"Gokudera, Yamamoto," He greeted them with a thick voice, stressing his rehearsed pronunciation, "how wonderful it is to have you here! I am Adnan Özalp, Sun Guardian of the Tüccar Famiglia."
Both Guardians nodded and smiled in response. Adnan turned on his heels and made his way to a small cabinet.
"Name your drink… I mean, err – how'd that line go?" He scratched his balding head and gestured at a row of bottles.
"'Name your poison', perhaps?" Gokudera offered.
"Ah, yes, name your poison, I hear this line in movie." He smiled, pleased with his performance.
Gokudera answered for both Yamamoto and himself, asking Adnan to serve three glasses of his favorite drink.
Adnan, having misunderstood, poured three shots of a clear, anise-flavored drink, three shots of an almond-colored cream liquor and three shots of a thick green liquor.
Gokudera's eyes widened in horror.
"Yes, I hear the Japanese drink a lot of strong alcohol. You like sake, misters?" Adnan asked, handing each a glass of the clear spirit.
Gokudera recalled the last time he had sake and blushed wildly. It had been at Yamamoto's restaurant and he had made a fool out of himself. He couldn't hold his drinks. Yamamoto smiled, clearly remembering the same occasion.
"This," Adnan said, lifting his glass, "is raki, a very popular Turkish drink. It is like sake for us, but less expensive." He laughed at his own cleverness.
"Bottom is in the house!" He lifted his glass and smiled, pointing at Gokudera.
"Bottom's up," Gokudera corrected, flustered.
All three men downed their drinks. Adnan collected their glasses and handed out the green liquor. Gokudera tried refusing, saying he wasn't much of a drinker, yet Adnan insisted that they had to drink or he would feel personally offended. They drank down the thick, mint-flavored syrup. For the third drink, a cream made up of some African fruit, Adnan flexed his cultural muscle once more.
"Like the Germans say, priest!" He laughed heartily.
"Prost," Gokudera corrected and drank, glancing at Yamamoto. He was clueless and happy as ever.
The three men sat down on an inviting white couch with gold trimmings, enjoying the burning sensation that lingered inside their chests. Gokudera felt the back of his eyes tingle and asked one of the servants by the door to bring him a glass of water.
"Thank you, my Japanese friends," Adnan said, sitting in the couch across from Yamamoto and Gokudera, "for enjoying drink with me. I apologize for the delay, the rest of the famiglia will be here soon."
Gokudera made a dismissing gesture and translated for Yamamoto. A servant brought a glass of water for Gokudera, setting it down on a coaster with the crest of the Tüccar Famiglia.
As she left the room, a beautiful woman in a black dress drifted into the room. Her high heels clicked on the marble floor and echoed on the high ceilings. All three men stood to greet her.
"Boss," Adnan said, lowering his head slightly. She smiled at his gesture.
Boss? Yamamoto's eyes darted back at Gokudera.
"My name is Irem," she said, kissing Yamamoto and Gokudera on both cheeks, like the French, and hugging them, like the Italians, "Irem Demir, ninth Boss of the Tüccar Famiglia."
Four men and another woman walked in shortly after, presenting themselves and greeting Gokudera and Yamamoto in turn.
The other woman, the Rain Guardian, who introduced herself as Pembe Kaya, handed Yamamoto a small box. A stylish man, the Storm Guardian, who introduced himself simply as Efe, handed Gokudera a small jeweler's envelope.
"Presents," Pembe said with a smile, "from like-attributed fellow Guardians."
Yamamoto's was a bottle of expensive cologne, which he was very pleased with. He issued an awkward zenk-yu and smiled. Gokudera found a beautiful pair of black onyx studs inside his small envelope and thanked the other Guardian.
Gokudera started feeling a buzz run through his veins and kept himself under control by taking measured sips of water from his glass. He opened the briefcase and handed Irem, the Boss, its contents. She signed the contracts inside and stamped the document with Sky Flames.
"You don't wish to read the terms?" Gokudera asked, surprised.
"I highly doubt that's necessary," she said, smiling and handing everything back to Gokudera.
"Let us celebrate, then!" Adnan said, jumping up in excitement.
On cue, servants poured nine cups of red wine and handed one to each of the Guardians in the room. Gokudera tugged at the neck of his shirt. It would be seen an insult to refuse a drink in such an occasion.
They drank their wine and exchanged the usual mafia gossip in an adjacent cocktail room. Gokudera started lisping and mixing up his English so he poured his wine into a potted tree when no one was looking.
Adnan, energetic as ever, squealed at Gokudera's empty cup.
"My friend, you sure enjoy drinking! But don't worry, as long as you're with us your glass will never be empty." He smiled and ordered a servant to bring more wine in Turkish.
"Oh, no, no, Adnan," Gokudera shook his head and put his hand over the brim of his cup.
"You mean no more wine?" Adnan asked.
"No more wine, thank you," Gokudera sighed in relief, finally being understood.
Adnan nodded, took Gokudera's cup and replaced it instantly with a glass of Bourbon on the rocks.
"Take it easy," Yamamoto mocked, laughing at Gokudera's predicament.
"Shut up, baseball idiot,"
Adnan drank down half of his glass in a single gulp and invited Gokudera to do the same.
"My, my," Irem said, impressed, "I've never seen anyone hold their drinks like my Adnan."
"Looks like you've found a drinking partner!" The Tüccar Mist Guardian laughed.
Gokudera finished his drink and set it down on a nearby table. It was whisked away immediately by a servant. Yamamoto added up Gokudera's drinks in his head.
Five, he thought, we're still good.

-

Thirteen, Yamamoto thought, we're screwed.
Close to noon, Irem and her Guardians had to leave for a business lunch. Adnan nearly begged to stay drinking with Gokudera.
"Who could refuse you anything, my darling?" She pinched Adnan's cheek and left with the rest of her Guardians. "Please join us tomorrow," she turned at the door, speaking to Gokudera, "we'll be taking a small tour down the Bosporus on our ship."
Gokudera stammered a response and Irem left with a laugh. And so Adnan had Gokudera drinking well past lunchtime. As they were sitting there, laughing like toothless horses, Yamamoto played with his phone, bored out of his mind.
Gokudera stopped laughing abruptly, clutched the edge of the couch and, without a warning, hurled out his stomach's contents.
Adnan rolled over in laughter and servants rushed over to clean up the mess. Yamamoto somehow managed to communicate with Toghrul the driver and had him pick them up five minutes later. Adnan, drunk yet not plastered, helped carry Gokudera to the car.
"Goodbye my Japanese friends," he said, "I hope to see you tomorrow!" He slammed the door shut with a laugh.
As they drove back to their hotel, Gokudera stuck his head out the window the entire time and heaved like a sick dog.
"Goddamnhim," he sputtered out, following his comment with a series of gagging noises.
They managed, with Toghrul's help, to get Gokudera to their room. Yamamoto thanked the discreet driver and laid Gokudera in bed.
Yamamoto closed the curtain to cut off the sunlight that was flooding the room.
"Jesus Gokudera," he said "it's not even four o'clock."
"Juss lemme sleep it off an' we'll go eat dinner." He answered, his face buried in the pillow.
Yamamoto helped Gokudera out of his shoes and socks. He turned him over like a lifeless sack of potatoes and took off his jacket and tie.
"There," Yamamoto said, pleased with his work.
He thought about taking a nap himself but realized he was too hungry to do so. He decided he wanted to have a decent meal outside the hotel for once, so he made his way down to the lobby and tried to communicate with the lady receptionist. He basically made eating gestures and rubbed his stomach and she pointed down the street in response.
There was, as a matter of fact, a nice little restaurant in that general direction. Some old men reading the newspaper were sitting on the stone benches of the plaza and smoking their evening away. Yamamoto smiled at them and they frowned back at him.
He went into the restaurant, which had a long display counter, and pointed at what he wanted. The men behind the counter were helpful and understanding. They gestured him to sit down and let him know that a waiter would hand him his food.
As he ate, he thought about how incredibly far from home he was. He'd never even left Namimori before becoming a Vongola Guardian. He thought about his old man, alone at the sushi shop.
"Baseball practice in Takamatsu," he had told his father, and with that he boarded a plane with Gokudera and put over five thousand miles between himself and everything he knew.
His meal included rice and lamb rolled up in grape leaves and a side of couscous, some type of ravioli with a yogurt sauce and a small dish of stuffed eggplant with olive oil. At the end of his meal he was served a glass of some herbal liquor. He paid the bill and walked around for a bit, making sure the Galata Tower was always in sight. The sun started to set behind the buildings on the opposite shore.
Back at the hotel Yamamoto found Gokudera curled up in bed, shirtless, snoring and bent into an awkward angle.
That can't be good for his back, Yamamoto thought.
He made his way over to the bed and tried flipping Gokudera around. His breath reeked of alcohol.
"You might just burst into flames if I light a match anywhere near you," he joked as he managed to roll Gokudera onto his back.
Yamamoto sat in his own bed and glanced over at Gokudera. His pale skin caught on the sunset. Only the slight, rhythmic movement of his chest indicated he was still alive. His silver hair was sprawled in a mangle all over the pillow. Yamamoto's eyes wandered downward, below Gokudera's naked chest and towards his navel. He noticed deep red marks around Gokudera's waistline, from sleeping with his pants and belt on. Yamamoto unfastened Gokudera's belt and peeled his pants off with little effort.
There, he thought, now you should feel more comfortable.
Gokudera's tossed slightly, stuffing his hand under the pillow. Yamamoto felt uneasy looking at the sleeping Gokudera. There's always a sense of guilt, as if you're invading someone's privacy, when you watch someone sleep.
Yamamoto hated himself for the thoughts that followed. He covered Gokudera with a blanket and changed out of his suit into more comfortable clothes. He sat down on his bed and watched TV, digging his nails into his arm every time he caught himself glancing over at Gokudera.