#khr digital zine 2017

[ruluxe]

Red River Hustle

KHR Digital Zine 2017 Submission

Characters: Gokudera Hayato & Yamamoto Takeshi Word Count: 4,318 Summary: When a mission goes awry, Takeshi meets Gokudera at a rest stop somewhere just outside Catania, Sicily, to take him back to their base in Palermo — only Gokudera isn’t his only passenger and Takeshi is reminded of how deep the mafia way of living still roots in him. Warnings: Contains swearing, gun violence, blood & minor character death.Inspiration: Red River Hustle by The Mumlers

Read on Ao3 & download the KHR Zine 2017 here!

Italy is a really beautiful place — specifically Palermo, Takeshi thinks as he drives along the E90 towards the main city. Mountains, serene beaches with clear waters that sparkle under the sun and eclectic ancient architecture rich in history thousands of years old soaked into the stone surround him. It really is one of his most favourite places he’s travelled since becoming one of Vongola’s guardians.

Another beautiful thing to come out of Palermo — if he could be so bold as to say so — is sitting in the passenger seat, shouting at someone over the phone in his native tongue. Takeshi has yet to catch on to the dialect, it’s much different than the Italian he was taught, and Gokudera speaks so fast that it would be difficult to understand him even if he were speaking Japanese. He does, however, understand when Gokudera turns to him, covers the mouthpiece of his cellphone and in Japanese says,

“Can’t you drive any faster?”

Takeshi laughs, the scar on his chin pulling with the motion. “I’m driving the speed limit.”

“There’s no one else on the fucking road, Yamamoto,” Gokudera gestures. “Drive faster .” He returns to his phone call, raising his voice to an even louder octave to the point that Takeshi feels bad for the person on the other end.

He presses his foot to the gas pedal tentatively at first, then, pushing it beyond one-hundred mph. Adrenaline surges as the engine revs and the speedometer climbs. There’s something dangerously exciting about speeding down a lonely stretch of road with the wind in his hair, as cliche as it sounds. Perhaps it’s old age getting to him or perhaps it’s just because Takeshi’s always enjoyed the simpler things life has to offer.

“Cazzo!” Gokudera suddenly shouts, tossing the phone into the cup holder next to him. “This mission has turned out to be such a fucking mess,” he says, making the smooth transition into the language Takeshi understands best. “The Tenth expects more of me, more of my team, you know?”

“I’m sure Tsuna isn’t going to mind.” Takeshi isn’t sure of the situation Gokudera’s in, or what mess he’s referring to but it can’t be as bad as he thinks. Gokudera has always been exceptional at keeping his unit in line, much better than the rest of them — with the exception of Hibari, but there again, Hibari’s unit is well, just Hibari.

“Thanks for coming,” Gokudera grumbles, prodding at the swollen split in his lip. He elicits a hiss before grunting, “I needed someone else to fucking drive. I haven’t slept in two days, I can’t feel my eyeballs.”

Takeshi laughs, despite his concern. “No problem. The car is nice.” It’s an Italian car, of course, he can’t remember the name of but it’s a two-door convertible in vibrant red. “It’s not one of ours though.”

Gokudera snorts. “Definitely not one of ours.”

“What happened?” Takeshi catches Gokudera’s subtle cringe at the question and doesn’t miss the tremble in his hands when he pulls a cigarette out of its case and proceeds to light it, or the fact that he's wearing shades to cover up a bruised eye.

He shrugs. “Little fender bender. I uh, commandeered this vehicle from the parking lot of that sushi place in Catania you love so much.”

Takeshi raises an eyebrow. “You stole a car?”

“I borrowed it,” Gokudera corrects. “Relax, I changed the plates.”

“Well… I’m glad you’re okay,” Takeshi says with a slow nod as if he’s trying to convince himself that he’s fine without further prying. He certainly doesn’t look okay. “It’s not very inconspicuous.”

“Yeah.” Gokudera takes a drag of his cigarette. “But it sure is beautiful.” He doesn’t say anything more about what happened, and Takeshi catches him looking over his shoulder several times.

“Are you worried about the police following us? Because I gotta tell you —”

“No.”

“— this car isn’t easy — oh. Okay.” Takeshi shuts his mouth abruptly and focuses on driving as fast as he can without drawing too much attention to them, though it’s not an easy feat in this car. It just gives Takeshi something else to worry about on top of Gokudera’s elusiveness.

After several long minutes of silence, “Turn here,” Gokudera demands and Takeshi complies without a second thought. It’s only after driving down the abandoned dirt road for a few minutes that Takeshi realises they’re not on course.

“This isn’t the way back to base,” he observes, easing his foot off the gas pedal. “We’re supposed to be going —”

“What are you doing, idiot?” Gokudera reaches over and shoves down on his knee so that his foot is forced to press on the gas again. “Keep driving!”

“But Gokudera —” Takeshi doesn’t get a chance to finish because the tires hit a dip in the road and the car bounces violently, tossing them around in their seats. As this happens, a loud thump! sounds from the trunk. The car lands on smoother ground and Takeshi brings the car to a full stop.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” asks Gokudera, pushing hair out of his face with one hand and bringing the cigarette to his mouth with the other. He brings his hand back down, gingerly poking at his ribs, wincing with the action.

“That sound. It came from the trunk.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Yes… I’m sure you did. It was loud.”

Gokudera shrugs and raises a brow over his aviator shades. “Spare tire probably.”

“Gokudera,” Takeshi begins with a sigh, “what are we doing out here and what was that noise in the trunk?”

As if on cue, another hollowed bang sounds followed by some muffled, incoherent shouting.

“Are you telling me you don’t hear that?” And then something horrifying dawns on Takeshi. “Oh shit — Is that a person?! In the trunk?!”

“Maybe,” Gokudera supplies but Takeshi now knows he’s clearly hiding something. Someone, rather.

“That isn’t… one of our guys, is it?” he asks with a swallow, his mouth suddenly going dry. “Because now that I think about it, your team —”

“Look,” Gokudera says with a sigh and a pinch to the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t have time to question him myself, but I couldn’t take the chance of him being the rat. He was acting suspiciously before the mission and with it being the fucking shitstorm it became, now I know why. I should have killed him on the spot, but I know the Tenth would never forgive me.”

Sometimes Takeshi forgets Gokudera's lifelong ties to the mafia and a family far more unforgiving than their own. “So what are we supposed to do with him?”

“You're the natural born hitman. You figure it out.” Gokudera flicks his cigarette butt over Takeshi's shoulder. He hears it hiss as it passes his ear. Takeshi frowns.

“We should take him back to the estate and let Tsuna handle him.” He says this calmly in hopes of diffusing the inevitable explosion.

“There's no way in hell I'm bringing this guy back to the estate. What if he's got a GPS tracker hidden somewhere on him — or in him? We'd be putting everyone at risk,” Gokudera gasps. “No. We have to cut the fucker open right here, right now. After you get him to tell you what he knows.”

“You don't even know if he's guilty! You can't just cut a guy open on the side of the road in broad daylight, Gokudera! I think the lack of sleep is beginning to affect your brain.”

“Yeah well — I think the fact that you were dropped on your head as a baby has already had an effect on your brain and you're in no position to be telling me what you think is wrong with my brain.” Gokudera adjusts the glasses on his face and shifts with a haughty roll of his neck and shoulders.

Takeshi stares at him really hard for a really long time. “I think you're being paranoid bu—”

“I'm being paranoid?” Gokudera starts, his jaw dropping in offence. “I'm —”

“But,” Takeshi continues, raising his voice over Gokudera’s increasingly high pitched screeching. Sometimes it's comical when he gets like this, but now is not the time for laughter. “But let's get him out of the trunk, get him some water and talk to him.”

Gokudera shuts his mouth abruptly and Takeshi feels much better. Before exiting the car, he looks at the road ahead and behind them for any witnesses. There are none, so he reaches down to flip the latch and Gokudera grabs onto his arm.

“Wait, you idiot! You can't just open the trunk with no one back there. What if he jumps out and runs off? We can't leave that up to chance. You go. I'll stay here.”

Takeshi raises a brow and slowly eases back into an upright position. “Uh, okay… Not that I mind but, why me?”

Gokudera reaches across his lap to open the driver side door. “Look at me,” he says leaning back. He holds out a hand.

Takeshi can see the erratic tremors passing through his fingers. It makes his stomach sink to think that Gokudera’s been through so much in the last couple of days, and even more so, his life. He shakes his head. Of all the times to reflect on that, now is not the time. “You're right,” he says, getting out of the car. “But I have no idea what I'm supposed to be asking him, so maybe you could enlighten me?”

Gokudera sighs again, this time more dramatically exaggerated. “As I said, we were compromised. The only people that knew our location and target were the Tenth, myself and Stronzo.”

Takeshi knows that word, and it's not the name of the man in the trunk.

“We were shot at, the target escaped and we managed to get away without any major injuries, but they chased our car down. We were railroaded, our driver died —”

Takeshi’s stomach lurches into his throat, threatening a purge of its contents. He chokes it back down with a hard swallow and manages a shaky, “Gokudera!”

“Relax, I'm fine,” he says nonchalantly, waving his hand in dismissal.

“You don't look fine. Since I picked you up, you've been shaky and in obvious pain —  did you even go to a hospital? How do you know you're not suffering internal inj—”

“Takeshi,” Gokudera cuts, harsh enough to stop him from continuing his sentence yet soft enough that Takeshi knows whatever Gokudera's about to say next is weighted with sincerity. “I'm fine. Just a couple of bruised ribs and a somewhat busted face. I'll live.” His lips slide into a partial grin before shadow falls over his face and the smile disappears. “Maybe. Depends on the Tenth’s punishment when we get back.”

Takeshi allows himself to grin at this, just a little. “I'm glad you're okay. I also don't think Tsuna is going to punish you, let alone kill you if this guy is responsible for messing up the mission. That isn't your fault.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But hey — you just left the driver at the scene of the accident? What if the police start to ask questions?”

Gokudera draws in a sharp breath. “I know we've been over each other's level of intelligence a few times since you picked me up, but do I need to remind you that I actually use my brain? Of course I didn't just leave him there. I called for the Cleaners. That's who I was just speaking to. I know I'm supposed to check with the Tenth first but I couldn't get a hold of him on such short notice. As Right-Hand man, I had to override him.” Gokudera frowns. “I'm finished. The Tenth isn't going to want me by his side, let alone in the family, after this.”

“It's been eleven years, Gokudera. I really think Tsuna will understand your decision under the circumstances.” Takeshi pauses, running through the scenario in his head. Then, “How do you that the informant wasn’t the driver?”

Gokudera peers over the frame of his sunglasses for a minute before clicking his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Because I just do, Yamamoto. It’s instinct. I know these things.”

“Well… okay,” Takeshi agrees despite his instincts that Gokudera might actually be wrong. He steps towards the trunk and calls out for Gokudera to open the latch.

The door springs open and Yamamoto finds the man hog-tied, his wrists and ankles bound by rope. There's a strip of duct tape covering the man's mouth as well, muffling his pleas. Yamamoto opens his suit jacket and pulls a shorter blade, a tantō, from his custom-made shoulder holster. Seeing Yamamoto do this, the man’s eyes blow wide and he begins struggling hysterically.

“Calm down,” he instructs in clipped Italian, reaching across the man to cut his restraints. “I'm going to keep your wrists and ankles tied until we're finished questioning you.”

The man stills, allows Takeshi to cut the rope and remains still while he re-binds the man's wrists and ankles in a more comfortable position. Well. As comfortable as Takeshi could make him, given the circumstances. “I'm going to take the tape off but if you scream, we're going to have some problems.”

A snort comes from the car. “You watch too much American television,” Gokudera chides in Japanese.

“And you don't? I'll remember that the next time one of your bigfoot documentaries conflicts with my baseball games on the recorder.”

“Shut up.”

Takeshi grins as he rips the tape off the man's mouth. He whimpers and Takeshi offers an apologetic shrug. “It's better to take it off quickly. Like a band-aid.”

The man nods slowly.

“You work for the Vongola?” 

He nods again.

“What's your name?”

He coughs, but Takeshi doesn't offer him any water just yet. Finally, after a minute or two, the man in the trunk responds. “Frankie. Frankie Gallo."

“How did the target find out about you guys?”

Frankie starts speaking, and it's so quick that Takeshi can't catch enough of it to understand. He frowns and Gokudera shouts, “English, Frankie!” To Takeshi, he says, “Your English sucks too but it's better than your Italian.”

Takeshi stifles a laugh. Gokudera's not wrong. So, in English, he asks again, “How did the target find out about you?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Frankie retorts with a shrug. “All I remember is we're gettin’ shot at, then the boss drags me to our car and bam! We're gettin’ t-boned by one of the other guys. Next thing I know, I'm wakin’ up in a trunk tied up like some sorta prized pig.”

“Gokudera seems to think you're the one that compromised the mission. Why do you suppose that is?”

Again, Frankie shrugs. “I don't know nothin’ about that so how 'bout you cut this rope and let me outta this fuckin’ trunk.”

Takeshi looks to Gokudera, who shakes his head. “I can't do that just yet,” he says, glancing back at Gokudera for some sort of guidance. When Gokudera says nothing, Takeshi slams the door shut. Frankie starts yelling, but he doesn't pay any mind. “Gokudera… what are we doing here? The guy says he has no idea what happened, let's just get back to base and figure it out.”

“I'm telling you, that guy is a rat.”

“We can't just sit here on the side of the road waiting for the police to find the car.”

Gokudera lets out a loud sigh. He pushes his car door open and steps out, pulling a gun from his waistband. “I lost my holster,” he offers with a shrug even though Takeshi doesn't mention anything. He switches off the safety and suddenly slams his fist down on the trunk lid. It springs open, revealing a red-faced and sputtering Frankie. Without a word, Gokudera points the muzzle at his head. “Who are you working for? Georgio? Alphonse?”

Frankie’s eyes widen and he worms further away from the gun. “I work for you, Hayato Gokudera, right-hand man to the tenth Vongola boss, Tsunayoshi Sawada. Sir.”

Gokudera cocks his gun, Takeshi’s heart begins to race. Part of him starts to itch, the possibility of bloodshed prickling his skin; rippling cold yet somehow electric chills up his spine. The other part of him begins to feel fear, his stomach twists in knots and his fourteen-year-old self is telling him to take the gun away from Gokudera and find another way. The internal war keeps him from moving at all, his eyes locked on Gokudera's face. He can see the mottled blues and purples shine under the gold rim of Gokudera's sunglasses. The angry red swell around the corner of his mouth when he sticks his tongue into his cheek before clicking it off the roof of his mouth and saying,

“Who do you work for?”

Frankie says nothing and Takeshi doesn't miss the shift in his eyes; the way they transition from round and fearful to narrowed and cold.

“I work for you and the Vongola, sir.” Frankie's voice changes too; low and flat with a hint of defiance. Working in the mafia especially under the tutelage of Squalo and Reborn, Takeshi has become more aware of these tells.

Gokudera wraps his finger around the trigger. He must notice this change as well, only his awareness comes from a lifetime of personal experience; hard lessons he had to learn all on his own from a very young age. This makes Takeshi frown.

He clears his throat. “Who do you work for?”

Takeshi waits, his eyes still fixated on Gokudera's every miniscule move, catching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes; the thinness of his lips as he presses them together. The way his hands have completely stopped shaking. He doesn't have to be a genius to know this is Gokudera's last time for asking this question.

Frankie doesn't respond.

“You know,” Takeshi pipes up before Gokudera has a chance to squeeze off a round, “I think before we shoot him, we should cut him.”

Gokudera doesn't lower his gun but he does look over at Takeshi, puzzlement scribbled across his face.

“What?”

Takeshi shrugs. “If you're just going to shoot him dead without him giving us any answers, we still aren't going to have any answers. Right?”

“And? If he's not going to answer me, I'll put a bullet in every fucking joint until he tells me what I want to hear.”

“It could get messy,” counters Takeshi.

Gokudera scoffs. “Oh, and you think cutting him up like a Sunday Sushi Special won't be?”

“The gunshots are louder.”

“I have a suppressor.”

“We don't have the time or the luxury,” says Takeshi, switching languages. “You fled the scene of an accident and stole a car. The police are definitely looking for you.”

“Well then I'll cut my losses and put a bullet in his brain,” Gokudera says, placing his finger back on the trigger. “It'll be quick. We can take his body back there and bury it before —”

“Hey, assholes, either shoot me or take me back to see Sawada. I can't take any more of this bickering.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, turning his attention back to Frankie. “As if I'd be stupid enough to take you back there.”

“If I really was workin’ for someone and they wanted at the boss, I coulda already told ‘em the location of the base,” Frankie says, his tongue slicing sharper with every word.

“Let me put a bullet in him,” pleads Gokudera.

“He's going to put a bullet in you if you don't talk,” Takeshi says to Frankie.

Frankie's mouth twitches and slides into a lopsided grin. “If you guys were gonna shoot me, you'd already done it.”

Without warning, a gunshot cracks through the silent day, its echoes carried by the warm Mediterranean air for miles, as do Frankie's screams.

“That wasn't very silent,” remarks Takeshi.

“Giannini's working on better ones,” Gokudera quips.

“Tu cazzo di cazzo!” Frankie snarls. “Che cazzo è il tuo problema?!”

Another shot fires, reverberating through the air. Frankie howls in pain and Takeshi finally shifts his gaze from Gokudera to the man in the trunk. “English, Frankie! I said English!” Gokudera groans.

“You're fucking crazy,” spits Frankie, the words dripping like acid off his tongue.

“My partner’s not a patient guy,” Takeshi says apologetically. “You should probably just tell him what he wants to hear.”

“I think you should cut him,” Gokudera suggests. “Go for his ankles.” He grins. There's something eerily mad about it and it makes Takeshi’s skin tingle. “Achilles tendons.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and he feels that darkness begin to take over;  it's tendrils embracing him like a mother would a child. There's still that vice in the back of his head that tells him they should just bring Frankie in, that there's still the possibility he's innocent.

“Wait,” Frankie cries, squirming until his back hits the divider. There's nowhere else for him to go. Not that it would matter, he's still restrained after all. “Let me go, I don’t know anything!”

“No,” Gokudera says, firing off another shot. This one hits Frankie in the abdomen. Blood begins to pool as it over-saturates the upholstery lining the trunk. “Now you have to tell us, otherwise you're going to die very shortly.”

“I thought you wanted me to cut him.”

Gokudera pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I got tired of waiting.”

Takeshi turns to Frankie, disappointed but he's worried now that Gokudera's going to kill the man before they get any information from him. “I told you he was impatient,” he says, sliding his tantō back into its holster.

“And… insane,” Frankie breathes, his face twisted in agony. “I work f-for Don Alphonse. I w-was supposed to kill you — or get y-ou killed.”

This makes Takeshi's blood turn cold, yet fury ignites a fire so hot under his skin that he feels like it'd start to blister any second. He reaches under his coat again when Gokudera holds his hand up, motioning him to stop.

“Well, now. Wasn't that easy? How many more of you are there?”  

“And why Gokudera?”

“One question at a time, Yamamoto. The guy is dying and not very bright.”

“There’s… there's no one else. Taking o-out the Sawada’s b-bitch —” This makes Frankie laugh but then he starts choking on blood. Good.

“So your mission was to take out Gokudera and then what? Go after Tsuna? Did you ever stop to think he's got six other guardians that would be protecting him?” Takeshi's laugh tastes as sour as it sounds.

“I find it hard to believe that Alphonse would just send one little shit to kill me. Is he really that stupid?” Gokudera asks.

Takeshi watches as the colour drains from Frankie's face. “He's gonna die in a minute,” he says, frustration and rage wrapping around his ribs like a boa closing in on its prey. “You shouldn't have shot him there.”

“Got the job done,” Gokudera shrugs. “Next question determines if I kill you now or leave you here to bleed out on the side of the road. How many more of you are there?”

Frankie's grin begins to fade. His breathing is laboured, Takeshi can see that it's a struggle. “N-none… Boss said t-hat if this m-mission went bad —” He falls silent, his mouth still moving on words he's unable to put sound to.

“Shit,” Gokudera hisses, sliding the safety on and slipping the gun behind him. “I shouldn't have shot him there.”

Frankie's gaze goes vacant, his eyes reminding Takeshi of the dead fish he used to clean at his father's restaurant. He almost pities him in the end but one side glance in Gokudera's direction, Takeshi's reminded of the worst that could have happened, and that a member of the family almost didn't make it home. He slams down the lid of the trunk and heads towards driver's side. "We need to call Tsuna. If any of Alphonse's men see you're still alive it'll give them a chance to flee before we can find out who you are."

Gokudera gets in the car and picks up his phone from the cup holder. "The CEDEF can help out. We should call Lal too." He sighs. "The Tenth isn't gonna be happy I killed a guy."

"It'll be fine. I'll call them," Takeshi says, taking the phone from him. He puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. "We're not too far from the base now."

"I need coffee." Gokudera digs into his pocket and pulls out a crushed cigarette pack. Takeshi watches from the corner of his eye as Gokudera struggles to light the cigarette. It isn't just the wind, no. His hand tremors are back.

"What you need is sleep," Takeshi teases.

"What you need is to shut up," Gokudera retorts, finally managing to get the cigarette lit. The wind blows back his hair and Takeshi sees speckles of red fanned out across his cheek. Without saying a word, he reaches over and wipes off as much as he can with the swipe of his thumb. Gokudera turns and scowls.

"You had blood on your face."

"Thanks," he mutters.

"What are we going to do with the body?"

"Burn it," Gokudera replies. "And the car."

"Ah... that's too bad. I really like this car."

“I’ll get you one for your birthday,” Gokudera says. “Minus the dead guy.”

“Preferably not stolen.”

“Obviously not.”

“Does it come with the grumpy, sleep-deprived, chain-smoking guy?”

Gokudera clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “While supplies last.”

“Nice,” Yamamoto says with a grin as he pushes down on the gas pedal, racing off into the sunset. “Real nice.”