Apr. 6th, 2019

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Yamato awakens to the loudest noise in the universe.

Takeru has a metal pot in his hand, and Gabumon is rhythmically slamming a ladle against it, and every jarring noise from it makes Yamato’s splitting headache even worse.

The headache would be bad enough on its own, but it’s just one instrument in a symphony of discomfort: His mouth is dry, his limbs feel weak and sore, and he has the distinct and unescapable impression that he’s about to throw up.

“Please be quiet,” he whispers into his … well, this isn’t a pillow. He seems to have just grabbed a blanket and curled up to sleep on the hard wood floor of his room, ignoring the bed not ten feet away from him.

Takeru blinks at him. “Oh my god. Gabumon was right. You’re hungover.

“I’m not,” Yamato opens his eyes a little wider, then throws an arm over them, grimacing. “Fuck, why is the sun so bright today?”

“Someone got into Lord Goemon’s wine cellar and took a jug of Orochimon sake,” Gabumon says, before holding up a rather ragged clump of leather and paper, “They chewed up a book of rare poetry, too.”

Right, he did do that, didn’t he. After he and Cassian had managed to get themselves completely drunk, his better sense may have been drowned out by his overwhelming desire to gnaw on that book.

“That wasn’t -- …” Yamato starts, before he has to stop to spit out a piece of paper. Weakly: “Have you asked Koushiro about it?”

Yamato.

“... Yeah, okay, that was all me.”

Takeru sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’ve got to train the new recruits in an hour, and after that you’ve got meetings with the grand generals, and then you’ve got to keep working on traps and wall defences. Good luck doing all of that while hungover.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not -- …” Takeru grimaces, turning towards Gabumon. “Hey, Gabumon, do you think you could get some food? A lot of water, too.”

Gabumon eyes Takeru for a moment, then shrugs, padding towards the door. “Sure, food and water.”

Yamato shuts his eyes, but he’s pretty sure Gabumon actually makes a point of closing the door as loudly as possible, and it’s enough to make his head feel like it’s going to split open. Grumbling, he throws off the blanket and climbs -- wobbles, really -- to his feet, shielding his eyes with one arm as he opens them and blinks in the sunlight.

“You’re not coping,” Takeru says.

“I’m coping just fine, kiddo. You’re the one scowling and snapping at everyone.”

“You’re right, that’s so much worse than this self-destructive spiral you’ve been in ever since Tsunomon evolved to Gabumon,” Takeru replies, dryly. “If you need to talk to -- …”

“Sorry, no time. Like you said, my schedule’s packed today,” Yamato says, waving him off. Takeru scowls, and he can’t help but sigh, scraping his fingers over the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to raid the wine cellar again, I’ve learnt my lesson.”

That lesson is, Yamato reflects, currently playing out in his head like a band of Gorimon with drums.

Takeru raises an eyebrow. Yamato just barely resists rolling his eyes.

“You have my word,” he says, flatly. That, at least, seems to ease some of Takeru’s disapproval -- by now, the kid is well aware that Yamato is almost physically incapable of breaking his word.

“Good,” Takeru says, and Yamato’s convinced that the boy is being deliberately loud just to spite him. “But you should talk to Gabumon. When this is all over.”

When this is all over,” Yamato says, pointedly not going into whether that means ‘the siege,’ ‘the rescue mission,’ or ‘the Infection crisis,’ “maybe I will.”

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Yamato Ishida

May 2022

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