![]() ![]() Gokudera tugged at his collar self-consciously, even as a scowl tugged at his brows. ![]() "Looking sharp," Buffon said, bending to speak at his level. He loitered, undecided, and caught the giant's eyes. The man was palming the ornate banister with one hand and holding a wine glass with the other, pale liquid like Tuscan sunshine in the creamy light of the chandeliers, and Gokudera, who even as a fledgling pianist had the artist's occupational fascination with hands-fingers, knuckles, little bones-remembered being drawn to the sight of those restless brown paws, caught in a study of small movements. ![]() Some midsummer night soirée, Hayato saw him standing at the foot of the stairs in his father's ballroom, gloves, jersey, and fingernail dirt scrubbed away in favor of that tailored tuxedo, a pointy dress shoe tapping against the bottom step, top-of-the-line leather that gleamed studiously. 2006 and his name was on everybody's lips, but ten summers before that, he was just another nameless soldier pulling for Parma, a teenager or just out of that neck of the wood, nobody special. July of 2006, Gianluigi Buffon was coming off of his World Cup victory and into Juventus's match-fixing scandal, all the alleged trappings of its aftermath. The crazy should speak for itself, so the standard warnings will apply: manga not mine, gayness rampant, please be gentle with the hateful stoning, etc. Pairing: Yamamoto Takeshi/Gokudera Hayatoĭisclaimer: I had this long caveat all worked out, all about how none of the opinions I expressed in this story on Reborn! or football or just Italy in general should ever *ever* be taken as fact, and really I read the manga, guys, swear to God, but then I realized that it wasn’t actually possible to defend this fic. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |