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Gokudera was seventy-five when he finally acquiesced to the collective heckling of his colleagues and protégés and checked into the Vongola & Co. Seniors’ Home: ~Generously founded by Sawada Tsunayoshi, for the continued comfort and well-being of retired mafiosi. Established circa 20XX~.
Not even a half-step through the lobby door and he was ready to turn on his heel and head right back out.
A full step carried him across the threshold and into a face full of confetti. Silly string showered over his head, draping, clinging to his goddamn suit jacket like Lambo did to vertical objects in their shared youth. Multi-colored streamers and silk buntings hung from the ceiling. Buntings for crying out loud. And—Gokudera squinted at something near the far corner in disbelief—was that a custom-made piñata in the likeness of his head from when he was fifty years younger?
"Finally!" the small welcoming party exclaimed in relative unison and varying shades of vitality and health. "You're still alive!"
Gokudera couldn’t quite bring himself to answer in kind.
“You're late!" Ryohei hobbled forward first with an indignant scowl on his face and a fortifying fist braced against the small of his back. "I threw out my back trying to hang up those extreme decorations in time, you know."
Shamal had warned Gokudera against activities that could elevate his blood pressure. Shamal also had a shitty sense of humour and knew very well that most if not all of Gokudera’s life-long working relationships were built around contentious personalities and explosive reactions of the most literal kind.
“Oh, go take your meds, you old snot,” Gokudera ground back eventually. He wondered absently if it wasn't a bad idea to pick up smoking again.
“Already did!” Ryohei retorted, and Gokudera wondered not-so-absently if it wasn’t a bad idea to rip down one of the festively unnecessary buntings and throw it in the former boxing-enthusiast’s face.
(The last time Ryohei goaded Gokudera into an impromptu fist-fight, the result had been a half-irreparable social event and four months of intensive physical therapy each.)
It was probably a good thing that Yamamoto chose that particular moment to shuffle closer with a plate of cake and a fork cradled carefully in both hands.
"How's Tsuna?" Yamamoto asked once Gokudera finally accepted the slice of what looked like five layers of death-by-diabetes.
Gokudera brightened at that. "The Tenth still moves like he's sixty!" he reported proudly.
Dino wheeled forth from behind Yamamoto, looking quite distinguished with Enzio napping in his lap. "And the others?" the retired don pressed. "We don't get to hear from them a lot ever since coming here, you know."
"Tch. Who else is left that matters? Mukuro? Mukuro's a cheating cheater who cheats.”
”Wait, has he not changed?” Dino asked. “Who is he wearing this these days?”
”Last I saw him was on a live broadcast of the U.N. general assembly a few months ago, doubling as the delegate for Nepal.”
”And—”
”And Hibari's not entirely human anymore, so hell if I know. I thought we established all this twenty years ago. Asshole probably spends more time napping in his Box than doing anything useful for the Eleventh."
Dino sighed. "You're probably right... sucks to be Kusakabe, huh?"
"No shit," Gokudera snorted around a bite of the welcome cake. "Didn’t he go and donate his body to science years ago as well? Wasn't there a betting pool on that or something? I wouldn't be surprised if he’s also a box-entity now. All the Foundation reps look the same anyway whenever the Eleventh calls on them these days." He chewed twice before grimacing at Yamamoto. "You added too much sugar again."
Yamamoto laughed sheepishly. "Hahaha, sorry. I guess my taste buds really aren't what they used to be."
Gokudera took another bite. “Whatever. At least it doesn’t taste like Bianchi was anywhere near this. Now, will someone explain the piñata back there, and, more importantly, why the hell does it have my face on it?”
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Fin
Completed: April 01, 2010
Revised: December 10, 2015