Carlile here!!!
I am really, truly, deeply, totally, sincerely, whatever other superlatives, SORRY for the delay. First, I was experiencing writer's block and had absolutely no idea how to end this chapter. Then my computer started running really slow. Then it started freezing up. Then it wouldn't even start at all. My parents took it to a computer repair place, my beautiful, green-colored, dying computer, where it stayed for a week and got a triple bypass, and the repair people figured out that it was a problem with the freaking awful Windows Vista. Now, I finally have it back, and I have finished this chapter, and I'm working on my new XP-Vista hybrid computer.
Also, I would like to let you readers know that I'm not doing the Italian translations anymore. I know that the majority of you like it, but it just takes too long. Maybe once I get more time, I'll add the translations, but right now I'm releasing this chapter and probably future chapters with no Italian.
Once again, I am sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy Chapter XI of Whirlwing, not your average doctor-patient relationship. I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or anything related to it. All I own is this computer and my cat.
0o.o0o.o0
( C H A P T E R . E L E V E N : . B E T T E R . O R . W O R S E ? )
Dear diary,
I'm starting to think this is turning into one of those summer romances, which as fun as they supposedly are, it is not the right way to carry out my first ever romantic relationship. Today I have decided to gather all my willpower and not give in to Angelo, no matter how tempting he may be. So, now that we're presentable and such, I'm taking him to the town optometrist. He did wake up this morning without a fever, like he completely recovered overnight. Just like the electricity. And…the sun.
Yes, it's another rare sunny summer day in Celebrazione, Italia! It makes me want to sing and dance in joy. It's too bad I can't sing, and can't dance, and that I have to work this afternoon.
Sincerely,
Luana Diluca
"Angelo! Are you ready to go?!" is my call into my bedroom. I peer down at the counter after setting down my pen but before closing my journal, and I find that Victor is playfully and adorably pawing at one of the pages freshly coated in ink. I watch him for a minute or so, mesmerized by his cuteness, deciding not to shut the book until he gets bored and forgetting to listen for my patient's response.
Last night, before we fell asleep, I told him I was revoking my last yes, and that last night and tonight would be the only guaranteed time we would spend together. I got nervous thinking about his last question, like it sounded too much like a marriage proposal of sorts. He was too tired and happy to be fazed by it. I hope he remembers, and at the same time that he doesn't remember.
Eventually I lift my gaze from my darling kitten and glance around the kitchen. My grandfather is rooting around in the refrigerator behind me. Angelo stands at the opposite end of the room, leaning against a column, twiddling his thumbs. Both of them are wearing slacks and T-shirts; the fact that my old-fashioned, old-aged grandfather has the same clothes as the suave and youthful Angelo Benedetto makes me laugh a little, calling both their attention to me.
A quick, rough stroke down my cat's back catches the young feline by surprise, but he continues attacking the open page in my diary after a few seconds. Then I make my way over to the silver-haired teenager, who apparently didn't even feel like trying today as his hair was pinned up.
"Angelo and I will be back, Grandpa," I say nonchalantly as I walk. "We're going to get him some glasses."
Damiano Diluca nods at me, replies bluntly, "I'll be in the clinic when you get back, so meet me there," and continues his hunt for…whatever he could possibly be able to harvest from the fridge.
Within a minute, my patient and I are out the front door and down the staircase. We make our way a few blocks to the east to the town optometrist, Dr. Colombo Fazzari, and the whole entire time, Angelo matches my pace from a few feet behind and stays quieter than a mouse. No conversation. No sensational hugs. Nothing. I fear that I may have hurt him in some way.
0o.o0o.o0
Upon entry to the optometry center, Dr. Fazzari greeted me, and so did his daughter, Cornelia, whom I babysit sometimes and will be entering kindergarten at summer's end. Then I introduced Angelo to the eye specialist and the two of them scurried immediately into the back room. They told me to claim a chair and make myself comfortable in the waiting room. It's been about five minutes.
My nose has been buried in an old magazine from years ago with the feature article pertaining to a hurricane that hit the United States and wreaked havoc on a city called New Orleans. Cornelia Fazzari sits next to me, reading a children's' magazine. She's such a cutie. Mrs. Tatiana Fazzari situated herself behind the reception desk out in the lobby practically seconds after Angelo and Colombo departed, and has since then been sifting through papers and stapling things relatively quietly.
A familiar and cheery voice breaks the wall of concentration I have encircled myself in. "Luana?"
On a quick reaction I lower the magazine onto my lap with a loud rustle, and when I look up I see Orlando Mattiazzi before me, wearing a big, beaming smile as always. His usual entourage of one, Giovanni, stands behind him stiffly, and his rather shady uncle, Gregorio, lurks in one of the corners of the waiting area. It's an unusual sight when Orlando sports his thick, darkly-framed eyeglasses, as he definitely prefers contacts, but I still recognize him right away.
"Oh, hi, Orlando!" I exclaim, automatically excited. Being in the presence of people like Orlando and Fabiana make me this way.
The redhead leans over me and grabs my hand in his gentle manner, holds it up to his mouth, and kisses it lightly. Then he sets it gently back down beside me. "How are you, darling?" All part of his normal greeting.
I grin widely. "Just fine." Cornelia starts humming a nursery song, like she wants to drown out the talking so she can read in peace. Told you she was a cutie.
Awesome!" he chuckles. "I'm here to get new contact lenses—as you can tell." He points to the device on the bridge of his nose make of plastic and glass. Then he turns around and nods to the sharply dressed Giovanni, who proceeds to walk up to the reception desk and talk with the rather plump Mrs. Fazzari. And Orlando resumes his conversation with me. "Why are you here? Does Damiano need new glasses? Or, God forbid, your eyes have gone bad?"
"No. Angelo is," I reply.
The fairly dark-skinned teenage boy in front of me shows a countenance expressing both devious interest and jealous disappointment. "I see…" His left eyebrow rises, wrinkling the forehead of his round and flat face, and I can see his murky irises look me over within his large eyes.
I glance left, right, then left again, in a nervous way, and lean back to the point of hitting the back of my head against the windowpane, chuckling anxiously throughout the whole process. "Yeah," is my verbal response, though I am really starting to wonder what's running through his mind.
"How is Angelo?" he asks. His words are drawn out in pronunciation, as if he's still thinking about them while he's speaking, so the word see fades quickly into the word how without stopping.
I can't quite put my finger on it, but something is strange about Orlando Mattiazzi today.
"He's doing fine," I answer. I'm trying to be as vague as possible. As much as I trust my second best friend, for the first time since I've met him I get the feeling he's up to something.
The redhead tilts his head up slightly, quickly. "All right."
There is a pause that spreads its coldness between us. He just stares at me. For a while, I stare back at him, too, but the gaze is so discomforting I pick my magazine up again. I'm unable to help looking over the top of the smooth and shiny periodical at him every once in a while. At one point I hear Giovanni's voice call out, but I've drowned everything out too much to know his exact words.
For a rather inexplicable reason, as soon as Angelo emerges from the back room, wearing a fresh, new pair of thin glasses, I can't wait to give the money to Tatiana and leave. And Orlando watches me until I'm out of his sight.
0o.o0o.o0
After walking back down the road, I pause at the end by an intersection: backwards is to Fazzari Optometry, a café, a florist, and the only place in town with a computer, the library; to the right would eventually lead to my home, the clinic; to the left, the Spano family's clothes shop, the Dimaggio jewelry store, and other businesses related to apparel and luxury; and directly in front of us looms the ominous town boneyard. While I stand in the middle of the empty brick road, unknowingly taking in the happily welcomed sunlight, I stare at the graves of my parents from outside the cemetery. Angelo wanders aimlessly and restlessly around me for a short time.
"Why did we stop?" The first thing he's said to me all day, and I can't even answer him. But his voice is enough to pull me out of my inexplicable trance. I peer back at him over my shoulder. He has a curious and concerned expression, and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the baggy pants he wears. Unfortunately, I can't get a good view of his gorgeous gray-green eyes because of the blinding glare coming off his brand new eyeglasses, although I'm sure he's using them to look at me.
I shrug and turn my head, and my hypnotized brown eyes focus now on the gate of the graveyard while I respond absentmindedly, "I don't know."
There is a secondary moment of inactivity before I hear the soles of his shoes hit the bricks beneath us. He comes next to me and stops. Angelo doesn't know what I'm staring at, but apparently he decides not to question or disturb me.
Though I don't see him with my eyes, I picture him in my mind, for something to occupy my empty brain with. I come to think of how enigmatic he really is, that all I know about him is what I've created. Just when I'm about to ponder what my true feelings are about him, I notice he and his shadow are halfway down the road to the right. Only one quick glance at his back immediately makes me chase down the street after him.
0o.o0o.o0
(SPECIAL!!! Angelo Benedetto/Hayato Gokudera's POV!)
Mothers always tell their children never to lie, and consequently those children end up as good people. My own mother, however, wasn't exactly fixated on keeping me from lying, and, also consequently, I'm rather ashamed of what I am. My true name, the one God, Himself unwillingly bestowed upon me, is Hayato Gokudera, not Angelo Benedetto. I'm 15 years of age, a high school student, and an Italian-Japanese hybrid, taking permanent residence in a tiny and messy apartment in a town in Japan with a lazy and perverted excuse for a father figure I can hardly say I idolize as much as I used to, but have to put up with, regardless. I suppose lots of people admire me, maybe for my piano playing, maybe for my good grades and ability to ace tests with no prior studying whatsoever, maybe for my athleticism, maybe because I can attract legions of girls and still have self-control. Not to sound conceited or anything—stop me if I do. But I get the feeling that most of those who admire me don't really know anything about me. To tell the truth, I'm a heartless thug, delinquent, killer-for-hire working directly under a mob boss. A constant sinner with constant guilt. I'm obsessive and reserved, smart and stupid, distinguished and pathetic, unfortunate and happy, lost and sure, and, yes, a liar, who regrets lying, but has no other option. I'm sorry, Luana. I'm sorry.