Title: Date Night.
Fandom: Hitman Reborn.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Gokudera's diary has been noting down a few interesting inclusions lately. Yamamoto/Gokudera.
Fan Bingo squares:Inanimate objects AU, thank god it's Friday again (time loops), secret identity, what is this thing you call love?, diaries and journals.
Notes: Because of the 'inanimate objects AU' square I ended up filling, this may be one of the stranger fics I've written.
"You know, I think we've been here before," the pen says as it scribbles down the chores for the day, noting each one down in the correct half hour slot for which they should be completed in.
"Here, as in Friday?" the diary replies, rolling lightly beneath each letter the pen writes. "It tends to come around every week."
"Yes, yes," the pen says, unimpressed. "But have you noticed a particular trend to Fridays?"
The diary thinks back a few weeks. School, study, mafia duties, baseball game after school. Their owner has a rather organised mind, if not at times a somewhat violent one. There are some days where the pen has been less a writing instrument and more a sword, slashing down through multiple pages and leaving the diary with grotesque tears.
"It seems straightforward to me. Consistent."
"Very consistent," the pen presses, before sighing at the diary's blank look (the following Monday, currently empty). It isn't the diary's fault; it rarely ventures out of their owner's bedroom. The pen at least has seen the outside world, experienced it in all in its unglamorous glory. "Flick through to the seasons page, I believe it's near your front."
The pen doesn't have to wait for long.
"They don't play baseball in winter, do they?" The diary's pages crinkle at the realisation. "He's lying to us." The thought is unfathomable. You do not lie to diaries. The whole point of them is to record the truth, as it is (or will be in the near future).
The diary hasn't felt so betrayed since that weird little cow-monster drew sparkly hearts all over its cover. At least their owner had managed to cover the awful drawings with black nail-polish, giving the diary back its proper sense of gravitas. This, however...
"Now don't get your dates out of order," the pen says in a rush, alarmed at the way the diary's pages are starting to curl at the edges. "I don't think our owner is lying, exactly. I think I'd know."
Being a pen isn't simply a vocation, but an art. The pen knows which of their owner's strokes indicate he is angry, mad, or hurt (his owner is very good at these). The pen also knows when he is is happy or just a little bit weird (the pen is glad that he is now these two more often). Above all, however, the pen has come to learn the subtitles that shape these emotions into either truths or lies. The emotions alone are not enough of a guide. Their owner has written the most biting of truths when deeply hurt, while some very interesting lies have been spun in moments of happiness.
'Baseball game' isn't a lie, more a misdirection. A weekly misdirection aimed at his diary and pen. The pen isn't entirely sure why their owner would wish to do this, but then he has always been a rather private person.
"Think back, when did he first start using the term?"
Before the diary has a chance to find out, the pen is whisked away by their owner, and becomes a collaborator in getting his homework done.
Their owner is very good at maths, moving through the questions with a pace that a lesser writing instrument would not be able to keep up with. The pen takes pride in their partnership, knowing that it is because they work as a team that the homework can be completed with such routine efficiency.
"Well?" the pen asks when he is dropped, exhausted (and just a little bit chewed) back on the desk.
Soundlessly, the diary flutters open to a particular date.
Ah, yes. The pen remembers this entry.
Before belonging to their current owner, the pen belonged briefly to their owner's sister. As a result, the pen has written many floral and decadent entries that would make any pen blush red. The pen's current owner has a much sharper and deliberate mind, or at least when it comes to his diary. Their owner doesn't comment on attractive boys and the games they play, but on statistics, plans, and where he has to be on Tuesday.
And baseball games.
The Thursday that the diary has flipped open to has no mention of baseball. What it DOES have are deep gashes and unseemly splashes of ink.
GAH GAH ARG. That stupid IDIOT. LIKE HELL.
Hell is underlined four times.
The Friday has written, in a slightly shaky print that the pen disclaims immediately, 'baseball game.'
Hmm, so is this where it all starts -
WHAP!
Hayato swipes his books up into his arms and drops them into a drawer. Shit. He really should have starting tiding up earlier, but it's too late now. If Yamamoto was ever late like a normal person, this wouldn't be such a-
Right on cue, his doorbell rings. Hayato tucks his cigarette nervously behind his ear (they've been doing this for how many months now?), gives the room one last critical look over and then opens the door.
"Haha, I thought you were never going to let me in!" Yamamoto brushes past him before Hayato has a chance to change his mind, flirting a featherlight kiss against Hayato's cheek before he has the opportunity to get himself out of the way. It's ridiculous and unfair, and Hayato is absolutely convinced that he has somehow been tricked into this … this … thing they have going completely and utterly against his will.
Yamamoto drops the DVDs and sushi onto the TV, then collapses down onto Hayato's couch with a content sigh. Like he belongs there, and isn't simple there by Hayato's grace and good will. If that isn't bad enough (and it's approaching seething rage levels of bad enough), Yamamoto chooses that moment to turn to Hayato and smile.
Not just any smile. Thatsmile. Hayato's smile.
Guh. ARG. That idiot. Like hell.
"I'll get the popcorn," Hayato grunts, and he almost makes it to the kitchen – would have made it to the kitchen if that hadn't meant passing by the couch and the idiot currently inhabiting it. Strong, lithe fingers wrap around his wrist and draw him down onto the couch and uncomfortably into the crook of Yamamoto's arm, and before Hayato can protest Yamamoto has the remote in hand and is babbling on about whatever stupid action film he's gotten and how this one is sure to match Hayato's tastes.
The earnestness has got to be deliberate. Nobody can honestly believe that Die Hard has art-house qualities because it has a German in it. Surely, not even Yamamoto-
The twinkle in the idiot's eye gives him away, and Hayato clobbers him over the head with a cushion and gets him to put on a half-way decent movie while Hayato goes and grabs the popcorn, now burnt. When he returns, he sort of settlesagainst Yamamoto all on his own, but that is as much as he is willing to give.
Yamamoto's delight makes him uncomfortable, and Hayato is unable to meet his gaze for the rest of the movie.
He is never going to get used to dating the other boy, ever.