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searchingforenadi · 4 years

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writing a will is standard procedure

although it’s terribly misleading, the power of a name like ‘bloody bakery’ is too strong to ignore, so that’s exactly what we’re going to keep it as :O

a brief summary: Your customers won’t stop bleeding in your shop. You realize this might be a problem. (second person!OC, TYL).

xxvi.

You spend a few more days reevaluating your life choices.

Perhaps, you think, hands clasped firmly in front of you, you’ve gotten a little greedy with your new source of revenue.

On the other hand, another voice in your head argues, it’s not like you could’ve refused them. Paying customers are the same wherever you go. What kind of business owner would you be if you turned away every customer wearing a fancy suit?

You stare into the empty space of your store, the quiet ticks of a clock ringing in your ears.

The fallacy of mankind, you think solemnly, is wanting nice things.

Is this how it always begins? You used to find it ridiculous whenever the media reported sensational news about a company’s descent into corruption. Now, however, it occurs to you that perhaps you’re the one facing that same downfall as well.

Should I write a will? You stare even more deeply at the tiled floor.

The thought has never crossed your mind before. It’s something you had planned to do when you turn old and grey, but since it looks like your chances of meeting an early demise have skyrocketed in the past few months, maybe you should.

The entrance to your door swings open.

“Welcome,” you say, already on autopilot. It won’t do to ignore any potential customers right when you’re on the precipice of cutting off your very dangerous, very generous regulars. “How can I - ”

Yamamoto waves a hand. By his side, Gokudera remains silent, his hands inside the pockets of his pants.

“ - help you?” you finish smoothly. It’s only through a decade of customer service that you’re able to keep a polite smile on your face. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Yamamoto says, eyes creasing with a smile. Gokudera, in the meantime, lets out a grunt.

“The usual then?” you ask, keeping your eyes trained on their faces. You’ve spent too long pointedly avoiding Yamamoto’s sword to start staring now.

Yamamoto’s smile doesn’t waver. “That would be great!”

You get started on the coffee and, while the water is slowly boiling, you pull out your usual tiramisu cake.

“So,” Yamamoto says, leaning casually on the counter by your register. “Anything interesting happened lately?”

Yes, you immediately want to blurt out. I saw your friends handling illegal weapons outside my shop.

“Not really,” you say instead, the picture-perfect image of a clueless baker. “I’ll be shopping at a new place this weekend. Very exciting.”

“I’m sure it is,” Yamamoto says, and it sounds like he means it. You turn back around and pass him the usual box of cake.

In your other hand is the usual cup of coffee and, right as you’re handing it off to Gokudera’s outreached hand, you quickly glance down.

His legs, thankfully, are free of any knives.

Gokudera snatches the cup from your hand. To the side, Yamamoto slaps a hand to his own mouth.

“You - ” Gokudera starts with a snarl, eyes flashing.

“And that’s our cue to go,” Yamamoto cuts in, stopping a potential crime scene from occurring within your shop. He slaps down a wad of cash and wraps an arm around Gokudera’s neck.

“Let me go, you little - !”

“Keep the change,” Yamamoto says, eyes creasing and shoulders slightly shaking. They leave right after, as Gokudera sends you silent death threats while struggling to escape from Yamamoto’s grasp.

You stare down at the pile of money on your counter. The fact that you’ve narrowly missed an early meeting with your late grandpa seems to pale in comparison to the stack of bills in front of you.

No, a voice that sounds awfully like your conscience whispers, you shouldn’t. Just take the right amount and return the rest! That way, the government has no proof when they knock on your door -

You very delicately pick up the money and slide it into the register.

“I’m human too,” you say out loud, to the utter silence in your shop. “We all have our flaws.”

The absence of any response should’ve been telling enough.

xxvii.

The next day, during the late morning, you fiddle through several documents.

You have enough to finally buy that mixer and now, your days of suffering are over. No longer will you have to hand mix your dough whenever your rusty, old mixer gives up on you. No longer will you weep over its struggle to handle your heavier mixtures -

The front door opens, sending a warm breeze through the shop.

“Welcome!” you call out, closing your notebook shut. If everything goes as planned, you should be able to order it by the end of the weekend. “How can I help you?”

You stop. There, standing in all his teenage glory, stands Lambo - your well-paying regular and possible juvenile delinquent.

Lambo grins. “Hi!”

“Hi,” you say, for lack of better words. It doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to mention your eye-witness account of his crimes. “You’re here early today.”

You can’t remember ever seeing Lambo coming into the shop earlier than the afternoon.

He shrugs, before plastering his face into your glass display. “School’s cancelled today.”

“School,” you repeat, somehow astounded by the news. It shouldn’t surprise you - Lambo is still a teenager and those types of people should still be in school. It certainly explains the fancy uniform he’s always wearing.

“I didn’t know the local school here required uniforms,” you think aloud, pushing a finger against Lambo’s forehead to remove him from the display. It’s enough of a sanitary hazard that you’re willing to risk getting shot for it.

Lambo laughs, a little too loudly for the quiet shop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, I, uh, go to school somewhere else. Outside town.”

“Outside the town?” you blink slowly. So a private school? It fits the image you have, considering how much money Lambo throws your way.

Lambo laughs even more, and it is the most awkward sound you’ve heard this week. You take this as a sign to leave the subject matter alone and instead say, “I have some candied fruits, if you’re interested.”

“Yes!” Lambo blurts out, his demeanor shifting immediately into something bright. “I want that.”

You wait for a moment.

“Please,” he adds belatedly, before sending you a winning smile.

An answering smile finds its way onto your face and you move to pack a jar or two. You pull out your usual stash of dango and stick it into the take-out bag as well.

“Make sure you share some with Tsuna,” you tell him, taking his cash and trying not to scan his clothes for any suspicious lumps that would hide a weapon.

Lambo makes a face. “But you gave him some last time!”

Your smile widens. “I’m not making you share if you don’t want to.”

He droops instantly.

“Fine,” he says petulantly. “I’ll think about it, I guess.”

You lean onto your display, resting your head on a hand. “If you stop by next week, I might have some mochi for you to try, if you know what it is.”

Lambo perks up, so quickly you wonder if he’s ever gotten whiplash from his constantly changing emotions. “Mochi? Of course I do! I used to eat them all the time in Japan.”

You pause at this new information. “You used to live in Japan?”

“For a few years,” Lambo says, waving a hand flippantly in the air. “It was nice.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, unsure as to why this reveal bothers you so much. “Well, you’re welcome to try some if you’re here.”

Lambo gives you a strange look. “But I’m here almost every day.”

You sigh. “But you shouldn’t. Spend some time somewhere else, Lambo.”

Lambo slowly grins, in a way that tells you he hasn’t even bothered to consider your words, before waving a hand goodbye.

You run a hand through your hair - sometimes, you wonder why you even bother.

xxviii.

That night, you set your alarm and settle into bed, closing your eyes firmly shut. Tomorrow morning, you will be getting that anko, one way or another.

If the marketplace doesn’t have any, you already have an order form for azuki beans filled out and ready to go. At this point, price or time doesn’t matter - your desire for anko has transcended all logical thought and has become a primal need.

Just you wait, you think, turning over to one side and pulling your blankets up to your face.

The next morning, your eyes shoot open the moment your alarm goes off. You slap a hand to your phone and sit straight up, blinking blearily into your dark bedroom.

It takes a short while to feel human again. A cup of coffee in hand and thirty minutes later, you stare out of your window, to the dusty, light blue sky.

Outside, where the sun has yet to hit your apartment, you inhale deeply, feeling the cool, sharp air in your lungs.

You’ve already mapped out the way to the new marketplace last night. After a few wrong turns and a five minute break to consider if you’ve perhaps lost all common sense, you eventually find a blocked off plaza full of different sized stalls.

The sun now resting on the back of your neck, you trudge through the plaza, shuffling past a crowd of people huddled around a fruit stall. Staring out into the bustling market, you decide it’s a travesty it’s taken you this long to find out about it.

You continue wandering down the road, eyes peeled for any hint of your sought after anko. Tsuna had given a general area but it’s up to you to narrow down your search.

The sun rises higher as you awkwardly move around another small crowd of elderly women. Your crane your neck to squint at a particularly promising stall and -

And promptly walk into a wall.

Not a wall, you then think, hissing in pain as your hand flies to your smarting nose. Walls don’t feel like fabric and smell like smoke.

“Sorry,” you say, eyes blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t watching where I was going - ”

You pause. Through your watering eyes, your head slowly rises higher and, under a crown of silver hair, Gokudera scowls.

What are the chances, you think distantly, absentmindedly rubbing your nose. This isn’t the first time you’ve come across a customer outside the shop, but you prefer keeping your business and private life separate.

“Of course you weren’t,” Gokudera says, rolling his eyes. It might have been more intimidating if he had been wearing his suit, but for the very first time, he’s wearing more casual clothes - a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt.

“Right,” you say, a smile almost making its way on your face. A local marketplace is the last place you would ever expect to see Gokudera, but there’s something about it - the bustle of people, the laughter of children, the scent of fruit and spices - that almost makes him seem approachable. “Nice to see you too.”

Gokudera scoffs, shoving his free hand into his pockets. He tightens his grip on several plastic bags, before turning around and walking away.

You imagine this is the closest thing to a peaceful exit you’ll ever get from someone like Gokudera.

WIth a shrug, you resume your search, scanning the stalls and making sure to keep an extra eye on the road in front of you. Strangely enough, Gokudera is still only a few paces ahead of you, with hunched shoulders and trudging feet.

It doesn’t take long for a set of somewhat familiar characters to catch your eye. You squint immediately, feet stopping in place.

Like paper clips to a magnet, you walk up to the stall - already, you recognize several snacks you used to horde back when you went shopping at the Japanese market with your mom in the States.

Your lips curve up into a smile.

A commotion on the other side grabs your attention. There’s an older woman, face flushed red and a package in her hands, speaking loudly to the owner of the stall, an elderly Japanese woman with gray hair tied tightly into a bun.

All too familiar with irate customers, you send a silent prayer of sympathy to the old lady and look back down. Those same snacks are now somehow in your hands.

The power of nostalgia, you think, clutching the snacks closer to your chest, is a terrifying thing.

You turn around - and nearly drop everything when you come face-to-face with Gokudera once again.

He narrows his eyes.

“You again?” he mutters, a perplexed look on his face, as if he can’t decide if he should stab you or leave the subject matter alone.

You fix a smile on your face. Maybe you should’ve written that will after all.

But no, you’ve risked too much to leave now. After a second of deliberation, you decide that you’d rather get shanked than miss your chance at finding some anko.

“This is the new place I was hoping to check out,” you tell him, as a reminder that, despite his intimidating appearance, you’re the one providing the goods in this business relationship.

And, because you still value your life (despite your previous resolve), you add, “Tsuna recommended it to me.”

(You actually don’t have a single clue about the sort of relationship Gokudera and Tsuna might have, since you’ve never seen the two together.

But you’re hoping it won’t hurt to bring in some familiar names, just in case, to keep Gokudera accountable.)

Gokudera pauses, his eyebrows furrowing.

Then, with a click of his tongue, he runs a hand through his silver hair and says, “Yeah, whatever.”

You give Gokudera a wide amount of space and he walks around you, grumbling under his breath.

Disaster averted, you continue your (rather limited) shopping spree, walking around to the tune of a woman’s yells.

A few minutes pass and suddenly, after finding yourself staring blankly at a series of foreign words, it finally hits you.

You can’t read a single speck of Japanese beyond your own name.

The despair that follows nearly cripples you. It only lasts for several moments, thankfully, because your parents haven’t raised a fool.

You pull out your phone and look up the kanji for anko. Like a makeshift metal detector, you continue walking around, appraising anything that might look like red bean paste.

The search goes on for a short while before it leaves you completely empty-handed. You let out a long sigh, shifting slightly to accommodate the number of snacks in your arms.

You drag your feet to the register, already calculating the days it’ll take to have azuki beans delivered to your doorstep.

If I pay more, I can get it next week, you think, folding your fingers to keep track of your numbers. It would’ve been a problem a few months ago, spending an exorbitant amount of money for azuki beans, but your strange and well-dressed regulars have solved it for you with their… generosity.

You check the time on your phone. The same woman from before is still at the register, and you’re a little impressed at how she’s gone for ten minutes without taking a single breath.

It’s bothersome enough that you consider dumping the snacks and leaving altogether. From the almost blank look on the stall owner’s face, you can only imagine this will continue for a while.

Except, by sheer coincidence, your eyes focus on the package in the woman’s hands. The kanji looks vaguely familiar, which is impossible, because you only know -

You quickly pull out your phone and almost drop your snacks in your haste.

“There’s no way,” you say to yourself, staring at the matching kanji on your phone.

The stars aligning themselves to dangle anko in your face isn’t the most terrifying part. Rather, you can’t believe you’re actually considering, actually thinking about taking the anko, without knowing where it’s been, or where it came from -

A rustle of noise grabs your attention, dragging you away from your horrifying, unsanitary thoughts. You look back and, surprise surprise, it’s Gokudera, lining up behind you.

His lips twist into a scowl as he watches the one-sided argument. It’s a look so foul, you can almost see him planning a premeditated murder.

Which, he wouldn’t do, of course, because this is a very open space, in a very public area.

… Right?

He wouldn’t, you think, a little less confidently.

An ominous creak fills the air when Gokudera digs his fingers deep into the plastic packages in his hands.

You swiftly walk up to the register, because you’re not particularly eager to witness a crime on a Saturday morning. It’s the grandest act of community service you’ve done since high school and you hope it’ll be the last.

“Excuse me,” you say, plastering on your best customer service smile. “That anko - is there a problem with it?”

The woman stops her tirade to give you a dirty look.

“The problem is that I was tricked!” she snaps, gesturing to the packaged anko. From a glance, it doesn’t look opened. “I asked for regular beans and this old lady gave me this!”

“Regular beans,” you repeat, before slowly looking back at the anko. You’re sorely tempted to ask how red bean paste could ever be mistaken for actual beans, but you swallow the words down.

“That must have been confusing,” you say instead, keeping that smile on your face because you’re a professional. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Ten euros,” the woman says, crossing her arms. “And I’m not leaving until I get a full refund for it!”

You put your snacks down on the counter, pull out your wallet, and hand over the right amount. “Great! Consider it paid for.”

The woman stares at the bills in her hand. “What?”

“Your refund,” you say, taking the anko from her loosened grip. “You can leave now, right?”

It doesn’t take long before the woman leaves in a huff, face still flushed and a hand clutching the cash tight.

You turn to the stall owner, who still doesn’t look particularly invested in the commotion before her. She studies you for a moment and slowly, a smile appears on her lips.

“---?” she asks you in Japanese, dark eyes gleaming. “--- is okay, but ---”

“Oh, uh, sorry,” you say, only able to catch a few words. Heat flares briefly on your cheeks. “I don’t really understand.”

(For the briefest of moments, you suddenly wish you had taken your mom’s efforts to teach you Japanese a little more seriously. If you had, would you even be in this situation right now?)

The elderly woman’s smile widens.

“No problem,” she says, switching to Italian with a heavy accent. The creases around her eyes deepen as she points to the snacks on the counter. “You take this?”

“Uh, yes,” you say, a little startled at the topic change. The stall owner hums, ringing up your snacks and calling out something else in Japanese.

You’re left slightly bewildered when she waves a hand, until moments later, someone else joins your side.

With a slightly resigned expression, Gokudera sets down his own purchases, and answers back in Japanese.

In completely fluent, native Japanese.

This, you think, blinking rapidly, shouldn’t bother you. Gokudera is clearly, at least, partially Japanese, and why wouldn’t someone like that know how to speak it?

(This time, however, you can’t stop the flash of envy that spikes through your chest.)

You shake away your thoughts when the stall owner passes back your snacks in a bag.

“Thank you,” you say, accepting the bag and adding your newly acquired anko inside as well. “How much should I…?”

The stall owner smiles warmly before saying something to Gokudera again.

Gokudera, in the meantime, lets out an aggravated sigh.

“She says don’t worry about it,” he tells you, looking as if he’d rather be doing anything else than translate an old woman’s words for a random baker.

You look down at your snacks in surprise. “Wait, really?”

The stall owner says a few more words.

“‘It’s payment for getting rid of that annoying fucker,’ is what she says,” Gokudera lazily adds.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

You open your mouth, and close it again.

“Is that,” you finally begin, after another pause. “Is that what she really said?”

Gokudera shrugs, which you find is a far worse response than a simple yes or no.

You turn back to the old woman, who still has a serene smile on her face. Your head spinning, you say hesitantly, “Um, thank you then.”

Then, because you’re fairly certain you’ve somehow entered the twilight zone, you give a returning smile and slowly back away.

At this point, Gokudera’s purchases have also been bagged and, a little dazed, you follow him back into the plaza.

“Well, I’ll see you around then,” you say, a heartbeat too late, but really - who can blame you? “Thanks for translating.”

You’re not sure if you actually mean it, but you imagine Gokudera could’ve ditched at any point, so props to him for helping out the elderly.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, his free hand once again stuffed into his pocket. It’s strange how harmless it makes him look for once. “Next time, figure it out by yourself.”

“I’ll do what I can,” you say, after coming to the conclusion that, despite the roller coaster of events, you’re more than willing to return if you can find more of this anko. “I’m used to language barriers.”

The both of you reach the plaza entrance and, with piercing green eyes, Gokudera looks at you like you’re the slowest person on the planet.

“That’s stupid,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Why would you be used to it? Just learn the damn language.”

Something clenches in your chest.

“I,” you falter, the heat returning to your cheeks. “Do you think I haven’t thought about that?”

Gokudera snorts. “If you’ve thought about it, but haven’t tried it, does it actually count?”

It’s tempting to give into the acid that burns your throat. Gokudera doesn’t know anything about you and, frankly, it was a terrible idea to continue talking with someone who’s just a regular from your shop.

What’s even worse, you realize, is that he’s completely right.

(When have you ever really put in the effort to learn your mom’s home language? If it bothers you that much, why haven’t you tried picking it up again?)

Gokudera quickly runs a hand through his hair.

“Look,” he finally says, after the silence stretches for a moment too long. “Forget I said anything.”

But he isn’t wrong.

“No, that’s not it,” you quickly say, suddenly hit with the awareness that Gokudera, despite his abrasive personality, probably isn’t out to get you. “I… I get what you’re saying.”

If something bothers you, shouldn’t you at least try to go after it? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all along with the anko in your hands?

You offer a weak smile. “I haven’t thought about it that way. So I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gokudera eyes you, lips twisting into that same perplexed expression from before.

“Right,” he says slowly. “You do that then.”

And without another word, Gokudera turns and walks away. You stare after his slouched shoulders for a brief moment, before glancing down at the bags in your hand.

Your smile falls and, with a heavy sigh, you rub the back of your neck.

As it turns out, it looks like you have some serious thinking to do.

-o-o-o-o-o-

what? you’re telling me that one of Gokudera’s weaknesses being old ladies isn’t canon?

i actually had a lighter, more comedic plot point to end this chapter with, but it felt like that would diminish the importance of this final scene too much. heritage is something that matters more to some than others, but when you have different cultural backgrounds, it’s not easy to keep them all equal in your life - i hope this evolving struggle for our MC is clear to the people reading it!

there’s so much i want to say about my thoughts on this chapter, but to keep it short - this is the first time we see MC out of the shop and with it, a new set of experiences and facets of their personality. stepping out of their comfort zone (the shop) and being challenged through it - i imagine that Gokudera is the only one capable of doing it intentionally, at this time.

i know this started of as a ‘shitpost’ for giggles, but i do hope this brings some sort of enjoyment even when it digs deeper beyond the humor. it’s been exhausting to do many things lately, but i’m always grateful for how much love has been sent to this little, silly fic. please stay safe and healthy and aware out there!

#searchingforenadi #fanfiction #katekyo hitman reborn #yamamoto takeshi #gokudera hayato #lambo bovino #sawada tsunayoshi #finally #i will tag this #bloody bakery #this is the peak of my career #a title

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