Reborn fic: "Never Been"
Title: Never Been
Author: anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Warning: NC-17. *nodnod*
Notes: In a perfect world, I see TYL!8059 getting together like this.
K. Never Been
The corridor is long, with dim lights lining both sides. Portraits of dead people framed in gold filigree zip past as they pound down the red carpet towards the end of the hall. His breath comes out in little huffs; Yamamoto doesn't seem like he's breathing at all, somehow sacrificing oxygen for speed. Gokudera feels like protesting, except they're in enemy grounds where silence is of the essence. That's why he doesn't complain about the death grip on his wrist or that he hasn't been able to put his gun back in its shoulder holster yet. Then he looks at Yamamoto's other hand and how the silver shines red on the Kintoki, and bites his lip to keep all the snappy comments in.
As they march down the look on the other's face begins to twist, sharpening into a single point of concentration on some faraway target. It is unfamiliar and chills him, that look that tells him There is a kill to be had, soon. He knows what Yamamoto is - Guardian, killer, crush - has grown up with him, eaten his food and bandaged him up, snored on his hospital bed and shoveled paperwork at him. It's just he thought he already knew all of his faces, that grin and that stupid laugh that rings up to the heavens while shaking down to his toes (that warm sound). The tired one after missions. The hidden one he rakes him with when he thinks Gokudera's not looking (that hot shudder of desire).
- oh but he wants to know what it feels like when that hunger finally becomes too much and Yamamoto comes at him with his passion in one hand and his determination in the other, reeling him in easy as prey -
He'd just never been on a mission with the stupid bastard before, that's all. Never seen him in action - never saw why the 9th's taken to borrowing Yamamoto every now and then to bulk up muscle during missions. Yamamoto never talks about it, always returns with an ear-to-ear grin and a cheery, "Didja miss me?" Gokudera always shoves off that arm, even now that they're older. Truthfully he misses it, since Yamamoto does it less these days; he's around less in general.
They run past a fat lady in blue and a Chinese vase that probably cost more than a couple of his paychecks. Yamamoto's sword leaves a trail of blood in the carpet, but after they find the traitor there won't be any need to cover up tracks. Everyone will know his crime, after all.
Abruptly Yamamoto lets go and begins to sprint down the hall. With a grumbled curse Gokudera follows - and runs smack into the other's chest when he turns around. They've come to the end of the hall; a set of double-doors etched with flowers leading to a conference room beyond. The other leans the sword against the wall carefully and clasped the top of Gokudera's arms. They stare at each other for a moment, Gokudera rubbing his forehead where he'd crashed into Yamamoto's chin, Yamamoto just looking at him, as if still debating the words to say.
The look goes so long Gokudera wonders if there is some earth-shattering epiphany to be had. He fights down a blush from the attention, thinking of hugging a thorn tree; pouring salt on an open wound; gay men in aprons - fuck, not the last one. "What?," he manages to ask, throat closing around the words.
"Stay here," Yamamoto says firmly. When Gokudera opens his mouth to protest he adds quickly, "I mean it."
The bomber is confused, then as the idea unfurls in his head he becomes unspeakably furious at this turn of events; he opens and closes his mouth as if he could convey with his eyes alone how little he thinks of Yamamoto now. Disbelief chases irate anger around his head: This is a two-man mission, he wanted to say, that means you AND me! But Yamamoto just shakes his head after a moment, picks up his sword, and turns to go into the room alone.
Gokudera finally finds his voice, and jerks the other's arm back vengefully, hissing, "You bastard, you can't -"
The look Yamamoto gives him in that moment could have frozen flames in mid-leap. He is so used to the friendly little touches on his shoulder and arm, lingering with comfortable affection; the soft gaze across a crowded room of family members; sparse words, coupled with that idiotic laugh. The idiocy that endears to me now, after enduring it so long. This just can't be him, with a mask made of granite and pupils like flecks of shattered steel, throwing him back easily with a strength he's never held against his friends. Gokudera is a friend, wasn't he? What - what is this all about, he's so confused, it just can't be the same person he'd smiled with yesterday -
Something in his expression must've given away the betrayed feeling of the whole damn setup, because Yamamoto's face tightens that much more before he slips inside the door. There comes a snatch of startled conversation from inside before the door shuts in his face, and then he really is standing outside with that damndest blank look on his face, wondering just what the fuck had just happened. This is Yamamoto, wasn't it? - Yamamoto who plays catch with the kids and keeps a neverending supply of teabags for after-practice consumption. Passed out handmade chocolates to everyone last Valentine's Day. The one that wakes him with that soft look on his face when he falls asleep on the couch in the 10th's office (it makes him want to tug forward until there was no distance between them at all; watch as that look of surprise morphs into something infinitely warmer and loving).
From inside there comes a sudden, muffled yell. Then there comes gunfire - by now Gokudera is tugging at the doorknob, finding it locked from the inside. He's about to blow it off its hinges when he remembers that look, the ice-cool one Yamamoto had given him. It'd never be bravado or ambition that drove Yamamoto to keep him out of this; something personal then? But what could -
The walls and floor rumble around him. Pressing a hand to the ground he recognizes the tremors - the little EZ-bombs he'd developed and distributed last month, with built-in trigger-lighters for those who can't light them automatically like he can. They packed a punch as well as a loud bang that could be used as a signal; the only weakness was that they had a rather small blast radius, which meant the enemies have to be specifically lured into an area or close enough for Yamamoto to blast-and-dodge. Both of these instances worry him.
Decidedly he puts his hand on the door again. Yet he hesitates to flick out a dynamite and enter - it isn't that they're trying to be secretive now, whoever is left in the mansion will be coming to investigate soon. Was that why Yamamoto left him out here, to clean up some trash? That little shit, if that's really what he meant, he'll be getting it when they -
A rattle of machine gunfire from inside makes his heart stop. Bullets against swords - not good, not possible. Yamamoto's a damn good swordsman, not a teleporter or a magician. There comes another patter of rapid-fire before the sound is abruptly joined with the roar of another machine gun in some sort of sick rat-tat-tat! rhythm that resounds in his insides like a mad chorus of rattling ping-pong balls. His stomach churns disgustingly with worry and panic - Yamamoto is important to the family, important to him, he's even willing to admit that now - there are still things that needed to be said between them. It's too soon for the other to disappear, but then again who can go up against such impossible odds?
Then all of a sudden the sounds stop. The room falls silent while Gokudera stands there, hand on the golden doorknob, debating with himself on what to do. The lack of sound sends a renewed pit of dread down to his stomach; unbelievabilities abound: the unreality of Yamamoto dead versus being stuck here, alone, without even a means to retrieve the other's body. He's still frantically running though worst-case scenarios in his head when the lock clicks open, and Yamamoto steps out. He seems surprised that Gokudera is right behind the door; as he slides back into view Gokudera thanks whoever is still up there that there doesn't seem to be holes anywhere on the other. In fact, there didn't seem to be a stain on him whatsoever - no blood anywhere except for his sword, which drips with even more red. The other is so eerily clean, he just can't believe it. The frightening part is along with that cleanliness is a frigid kind of wide-eyed void of emotion in his face, the kind that abandoned children show when the world has deserted them. Seeing it Gokudera begins to close the door absently, faintly catching to the idea that it was better not to look inside and see the results of Yamamoto's craft. The door refuses to close, though, it bounces back after being caught on something -
They both look down. A hand is there, connected to an arm. As they watch a head and shoulders gurgles into view, bleeding from a pulped-up eye and various cuts, a living corpse latched around Yamamoto's ankle. Gokudera retreats backwards in surprise and revulsion; Yamamoto's hand snaps out and holds the door before it can swing further open. "'Scusi," he murmurs - why is he speaking Italian? - and pushes the corpse back inside with his foot. The sword creeps behind the door again. A moment later there comes a crunch, and Yamamoto pulls his leg free with an expressionless shake of his foot in the air. Then, as if suddenly remembering Gokudera is there, asks, "You got any more of those middle-radius bombs?"
Wordlessly Gokudera hands one over - trying to suppress his shock - along with a lighter. Yamamoto lights the stick, tosses it inside, then shuts the door. A few seconds later it goes off with a whoosh of gunpowder, but the two of them aren't paying attention any longer, they're already headed towards their escape route through the servant's side exit. While they trot quickly down the stairs, he chances a look at the swordsman, afraid it might be that void look again - but Yamamoto just looks thoughtful now. A gleam of his old self can be seen under that muddle of bunched eyebrows, Gokudera is relieved to note. He doesn't know how to deal with the other, the one that pushes him so easily, as if he never mattered.
------------
It is only halfway through the drive home that Yamamoto speaks. "Well, that went pretty well, don't you think?"
"Thanks to you." Gokudera slouches restlessly in the passenger seat. All he's done for the last hour is watch the frosty look on his partner's face melt slowly but surely into his regular relaxed expression.
Yamamoto glances at him. "We can tell Tsuna the good news. Why don't you give him a call?"
I don't want to call the 10th right now, Gokudera wants to snap back, I'm more occupied with trying to puzzle you out. But all he says instead is, "You did all the work. You call him," surily with a deep frown.
Yamamoto tries another tactic. "What do you want to eat tonight?"
"...Anything's fine."
"Pasta? That place Basil recommended -"
"I said anything's fine."
He can see Yamamoto was fighting down the urge to sigh petulantly. The light turns green; they follow the train of cars moving forward. They're nearing the apartment. The swordsman is already looking for a parking spot. Finally Gokudera points out one, just a tad impatient and frustrated, and they pull smoothly into the space. Neither have any equipment to carry in, unlike other assignments, so they just saunter up to the front door. Gokudera casts one last look at the car before entering into the foyer behind Yamamoto -
- his eyes widen and like a river unleashed, the deluge of desperate words come flooding back when he sees the giant black bloodstain on the back of Yamamoto's jacket. "Where - where -," he struggles for a phrase in something other than an octave higher than normal, "what happened to your back are you hurt?"
"Huh?," Yamamoto turns to face him, key in the apartment door. "Oh. No. That's someone else's. It'll come off the leather seats, so don't worry." And then he unlocks the damn door and strolls into the apartment.
That's not what I -, he begins in his head, and curses his pride for getting in his way of actually admitting he's worried. It's just all so new, this Yamamoto who walks and talks like an empty shell of peanut brittle, whole only to people who don't know him. Following the other into the kitchen, he watches as the jacket peels away to reveal a bloody-backed shirt, and then nothing but the bare tanned skin of Yamamoto's back, marked here and there with scars. He forces down the urge to look away or stutter out a "change in the bathroom, bastard!"; it isn't as if the view is anything new, just a part of him lurches more than ever before to reach out and touch it, feel it give under his fingers for once. But that would lead to a lot of things that he isn't sure either of them were prepared for yet.
"Give me a second and I'll head out again. It's called Lyrie, isn't it? The one on the junction of Montescue and Judicare?" The voice echoes through the hallway, bouncing off the happy pictures on the walls. Smiling people - him smiling, Yamamoto smiling, the two of them forever children captured in glossy print, wood-framed and glass-preserved. He traces the little magnetic foam frame on the fridge, the one that has the picture taken on his birthday when he was wearing the new ring Yamamoto had given him; it twinkles on his finger even now, a carefree twist of onyx and platinum. The two of them were looking uncomfortably off-screen to opposite sides of the picture, even though they were standing so close together. Yamamoto has one hand tightly clasped around the holster that holds Kintoki, Gokudera can see his whitened knuckles even here. What was making him nervous?
The faintest cracks of understanding are beginning to seep into his skull. There were times when Yamamoto didn't come to school that he'd chalked up to negligence or other obligations, far before when Gokudera started taking assignments. They'd been saying it all along, hadn't they, that Yamamoto was a born hitman. He had the strength and the innate talent for it - like a good assassin he'd trained to the level where it wasn't just killing anymore, it was an art. How long had the rest of the family been spared from dirtying their hands? How long had he taken those black 'hit' folders without a complaint, flying back to the family afterwards with a scrimitar smile so round it might just snap?
He'd always suspected - he'd always known - Yamamoto has a heart big enough for all of those he wants to protect, and nothing can keep him from keeping them safe. It's part of why after all these years, those shy little glances he wants to deny make his heart pound so loud in his ears, he recognizes what his selfish heart wants.
The front door closes, jolting him from his daydream. He shakes himself from his idle thoughts and runs to the door, jerking it open. Yamamoto is just stepping down the next half-flight of stairs, a crisp blue polo under his beige sports jacket. "Wait," Gokudera calls, grabs his keys and hurries down to where the other has stopped, looking up at him. "Wait, don't go to Lyrie."
Maybe it's something in his voice, but the swordsman blinks, confused yet somehow undisguisedly hopeful. Stupid bastard could never hide his emotions in front of me for long. "You've been there before? Is it bad or -"
"No - that's not it. Just...," and how should he say this one? "Just...stay at home. Rest or something."
Yamamoto remains unswayed. "Basil said it was good, and plus it'd be nice to eat out since we're both here for once -"
"No." He's nervous; his keys jingle on the end of his finger against his rings. He looks up at the stairs above (a spider spins a web in the corner), out the window (a green car rumbles by; a dog barks from the building next door), anywhere but at the other. Finally he settles on the front tips of Yamamoto's sneakers as the silence drags a little too long. "Just - just stay at home." He takes a deep breath, "I'll...I'll cook. Or something."
The other stares at him, protests building in the back of his eyes. But it's strange, he's never been more sure of anything - today Yamamoto has given him a taste of another face, risking the tentative balance of their friendship and rivalry, in hopes Gokudera will understand the changes happening in him. It's time to repay that, he reflects. Maybe it's time to take the next step. Maybe we're ready.
"Ok," Yamamoto agrees, following him back up. The gaze that bores into his back is made of both curious and ill-masked eagerness; Gokudera finds himself wanting to answer both tonight - somehow.
He makes his way back to the kitchen (he said he was going to make something, but they were both out so often, did they even have anything in the fridge?), eyes catching the picture on the magnet frame. He wants to change the photo to something more meaningful than the two of them randomly standing around and getting their picture taken. Tearing his eyes away he digs through the fridge. Some vegetables, not too old. There is olive oil and sundried tomatoes in the cupboard; a bit of fish and Italian spice mix to rub it down with. And of course, pasta in the pantry, fresh pepper in the pepper grinder and rosemary on the windowsill. He sets to work, thawing the fish in the microwave and tossing the bell peppers into the toaster oven to bubble off the skins.
When he turns around his heart almost stops again - Yamamoto is seated there at the coffee table, completely silent and observing his every motion. It is creepily stalkery but also vaguely flattering - he used to follow the 10th around like that (before the other Guardians became more Guardian-like). "Need me to help?," comes the inevitable question; Gokudera just waves him away, uncomfortable under that piercing gaze. After cutting up the tomatoes and bell peppers he peeks back to ask where the middle-sized frying pan might be, when he realizes Yamamoto's head is pillowed on his arms, face down to the table, shoulders rising and falling smoothly in rest.
He takes a moment to take in the rarity - after Yamamoto became a real member of the family he's only become more tight-lipped on his own feelings, on Gokudera or otherwise. Seeing those walls down and that vulnerability bared so easily makes him want to push back that wave of I don't just want him, I want to be there for him, but they're twenty-seven already, he knows better than to deny it any longer.
He clangs around the kitchen as quietly as he can after that. From the lowered set of shoulders he can tell the other is exhausted (and he hadn't helped, had he, hadn't even offered to drive home, he'd just nursed that stupid anger like the idiot he keeps referring to Yamamoto as). Finally he's done tossing in the cheese and vegetables, sprinkled it all liberally with pepper, and can't wait anymore. He nudges the other first, watching as that face turned sideways, frowning a little, before settling back down.
"Yamamoto," he calls softly, and the swordsman blinks awake. Gokudera pushes the plate on the table towards him, along with a fork and napkin. "Dig in before I change my mind and give it to someone who'll appreciate it more."
There - the faint ghost of real amusement flits briefly across Yamamoto's face. "I do appreciate it," he murmurs in return, and twirls the noodles onto his fork. "Where's yours?"
"Here," Gokudera gestures, and brings over his own plate. They eat mostly in silence, only asking what the other might want to drink, who would call Tsuna after dinner. The inane talk seems to make the silence echo even louder.
It's at this time that Gokudera happens to look up - and freezes. Yamamoto is eating as fast as he can while being completely silent (like Gokudera taught him to do when they first came to Italy), but what his eyes catch on are those lips, between which noodles are disappearing. They are followed by red peppers, and then - chew, chew, chew - they're slightly pink and shiny from the olive oil he'd tossed the vegetables in, he really doesn't think he can take this -
But then Yamamoto picks up another forkful and thoughtfully forks some fish as well, and then brings it to his mouth. Gokudera watches in horror as his eyes drop closed as he chomps down on the food. Appreciate it indeed. The way he looks doesn't help either, like he really is enjoying every bite, is thinking about him in every bite -
- he looks down at his own plate. He doesn't know, doesn't care if Yamamoto saw him staring. They've been beating around the proverbial mulberry bush that they've become the synonym for repressed sex jokes back at headquarters. That should change, shouldn't it? It isn't going to be like this forever, no it's NOT.
Finally Gokudera can't stand it anymore, and mutters into his plate, "Don't hold back."
Yamamoto blinks more times in a row than Gokudera has ever seen him do. "Excuse me?," comes the inevitable reply.
Completely red to the tips of his ears now, he jerks his chair back as he gets up to refill his plate. "I said Don't hold back." Next time just let me see all of it; I'm not a child you need to shelter. And then, just to make it sound less weird: "I - I mean, the pasta. There's more on the counter, I can't possibly eat all of that. Yeah..." The last word comes out like a sigh, a burden finally unloaded.
He plops down in his seat again, combing his bangs down to shield him from embarrassment. He just knows Yamamoto was doing that gentle little yearning expression that seems to shine out from his heart instead of his eyes, the one that tells him he's finally doing something right. Unwillingly his eyes flicker up to meet the other's, catching the warmth that lurks there in the corners of those almond-shaped eyes, swimming with some soulful emotion. He wonders if now was the opportune moment he'd been waiting for -
Slowly he stands back up, pushed the plates to one side. Then he leans in, stomach digging into the side, until he's all the way over the smooth, narrow face of the table. He dabs at the corner of Yamamoto's mouth with a napkin to catch an imaginary crumb - they're so close now Gokudera can smell sweetness of the bell peppers in the other's breath - and then sets the napkin down without looking. Their eyes are locked; he gazes half-challengingly, half-apprehensively into Yamamoto's eyes. There is nothing new here either; he's seen the darker gold ring around the irises, he's seen how those eyes light up when he shoves a birthday present at his chest with a snarl that could mean anything, he's seen them reflect all the colors of the goddamn sun whose Ring neither of them have. They share breath; if Yamamoto really was shy about it he could move back. But he stays where he is, inhaling the moment as if struck speechless.
"Take it," Gokudera mutters finally. His voice is husky and rougher than he means for it to be. He nudges the plates even further away, in fear for the safety of their contents. "You want it, don't you?" Yamamoto's eyes go sharp and flat all at once; his breath flares out of him in a hushed gasp. "Then take it." Gokudera is unyielding, he stares into those eyes because he can't look away, he's watching every emotion flit across Yamamoto's face and it comes to him that they've known each other for a damn long time, almost half of their lives.
He reaches forward, one hand on the tabletop for balance. "Take -"
He never finishes, because Yamamoto slams his lips on his as if it's his goddamn last night to be alive, and he's going out with no regrets. Gokudera struggles for purchase on the slippery table, but finally just gives up. Yamamoto's mouth is harshly warm, soft tongue sliding as their mouths open. He feels as naked as a lab rat laid out on the experimental stretcher - Yamamoto is tearing away his defenses, finding his weaknesses as sure and straight as if he's known them all his life. He gives in to that relentless pressure, finds the bite of Yamamoto's teeth around his lips, gives a yearning whimper as he clasps the hands that hold his shirt hostage.
And then without warning Yamamoto seizes him under the arms (what was he doing?) and drags him over the table in one swift movement (I'm twenty-seven, dammit! Not a child - twenty-seven, same as you!) into his lap. Gokudera gasps where the collar of his shirt chafes his neck, but all complaints are soon swallowed up by hands making short of his buttons and tie. Yamamoto dips in for a taste again, nose bumping against his collarbone; Gokudera's straddling his long legs, their hips so close together, it's just torturous. He leans back against the table so the other can close his lips around one blissful nipple; the other finds itself teased between fingers, so that Gokudera is straining and squirming in his seat, little huffs of breath echoing in the empty air. Yamamoto moans in return, a sound so raw and unrestrained, vibrating against Gokudera's chest that he squeezes the other's upper arms in return to tell him he feels it too, feels they can't possibly have enough time in the world to make this happen.
The table behind him gives a surprised screech as Yamamoto picks him up, age and all, and dumps him on the couch. Then he swings one leg over his hip and hovers there above, completely serious and concentrated. The unrivaled attention usually makes him blush and look in some other direction, but now Gokudera just reaches up with both hands, brings that face down to meet his. Yamamoto adorns his mouth, his cheeks, his chin with kisses. He feathers over his fluttering eyelids with his lips, before nuzzling nose-to-nose, smiling. His heart is about to beat out of his chest; from where his hand is over Yamamoto's heart he feels the same trembling excitement purring through the other.
Time seems to be going backwards; he feels sixteen again as Yamamoto fumbles with his belt and zipper. He can't stop the breathy, vulnerable little sounds when Yamamoto palms him through his slacks, makes his hips rise and roll to the movement of some unseen orchestra. The two of them are falling together like they've done this in a past life, and in the life before that - he knows the feel of sweat-moistened skin, tanned beneath his spread fingers as their hips clash, arching together until stars come out like the night behind his eyelids. He knows he's panting the other's name - "Ya-ma, mo-to, Ya-ma, oh-ohh..." - the other repeats his in time, foreheads pressed together as their eyes meet. Then it's all lips again, and Yamamoto's tugging and flinging away the last of their clothes, sitting him up to nibble delectably on his ear.
They're not taking it too fast. They're not taking it too slow. The only thing that's really wrong is that they're doing it on the couch, but in the light of the full circumstances that's excusable. He's going just right, Gokudera thinks wonderingly, we just fall into pace so easily. The other seems unsurprised, though. He doesn't hesitate to smooth one hand over his side, tracing his ribs, before drifting lower, to -
He can't suppress the shuddering gasp that rises out of him when Yamamoto closes around him, slightly sticky and so hot he might just burn away into ashes at the sensation. Experimentally the other moves once, a short up-down caress, but already Gokudera can't bear to look down for the sight of sword-calloused hands studiously memorizing the feel of him. His hands are weakly pushing Yamamoto away as he sets a rhythm, eyes never leaving his face. The gaze is as hot as his fingers; Gokudera throws his head back against the back cushions as his hands paw at the other's chest, trembling weakly there against his broad shoulders. His lungs cry for breath, his feet curl and uncurl, his blood is all rushing to his head and he can't think up pretty little phrases to describe the situation anymore because it's so unrestrained, so impossibly good.
Yamamoto puts lip to forearm, sucking slightly. Gokudera's hands push harder, voice sobbing for more: "Stop! Stop before I -"
The other does pause. "Gokudera?" And damn if there isn't a rough grate of desire in the other's voice.
"Stop before I c-come." His hands steady on shoulders as he brings the other's head down towards him. They lean against each other, Gokudera furiously thinking of the right way to say it. Well, since we're having sex anyway...might as well.., "Not this way. I want -"
He shivers in, cheek-to-cheek, delirious with lust. The way the other only sees him - he doesn't want those eyes to wander anywhere else, anyone else. "I want you in me," he whispers at last, and backs away in time to see those gold eyes go flat and hazy with accumulated midnight fantasies.
Too carefully it seems, Yamamoto hugs him close for a second, eyes closing with some unspeakable emotion. "Alright," he says - it sounds suspiciously like thank you, Yamamoto's always been a polite boy - and gets up. "I'll be right back." There comes a clatter of plastic bottles and cups from the bathroom (he can see the other knocking over things with shaking hands, trying to find something, anything that might work as lube), before the other reappears with something green and fruity the girls left the last time they used the apartment for a sleepover party. "Got it," the other's smile trembles on the verge of disbelief as he reenters the living room.
Now that there is distance between them again, it seems hard to breach the silence. Yamamoto hovers uncertainly around the couch, hair sticking up where Gokudera ran his fingers through it, feet undoubtedly chilly against the tile floor. Gokudera wonders if the other thinks he is having second thoughts about offering - he doesn't regret it; it is just like the other to worry when it comes to him - he raises a hand and beckons the other wordlessly. Relieved, Yamamoto crosses the threshold into the warmth of his arms again, still slightly sticking to his fingers with sweat, hands clenched tightly around the little bottle before he abandons it for Gokudera's hips, squeezing, tracing as if physically mapping every bit of him.
"Like you," he murmurs when they finally part for breath. "Always liked you."
Gokudera can't help but snort into his hair; it tickles against his nose. "More than you should have."
"You didn't help things." He can feel the grin press against his neck.
"No, I didn't," Gokudera answers, taking Yamamoto's honest route.
They move into position - Yamamoto kisses every ridge and hollow of his spine while he eases one slicked finger in, Gokudera falters where his face is against the couch rest, still Yamamoto doesn't give, just patiently massages until the tension in Gokudera's shoulders relaxes miniscully, then more and more as the sensation becomes familiar. Yamamoto adds a finger - again he jerks, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. The other licks a warm trail over his shoulder blade, tracing up to the vulnerable spot where neck meets back. Both of them can hardly stand it, they're tottering with sensations overflowing like a whole tower of champagne glasses.
Yamamoto shifts behind him, there's no mistake where this is going - yet his pounding heart tells him he's not afraid, he's only waiting patiently as the other runs big hands over his back, around his chest, down his sides to cup his hips. "Gokudera?," comes the soft question. He feels like he's fourteen again, when he entrusted his life to this sword-happy lug for the first time.
He nods. Suddenly the other's hand closes around him again, startling him with slow, steady strokes. He falls back into that beat, hips twitching in the grip of Yamamoto's other hand where it holds him as still as possible. He's building up again when he feels that hand leave, and something brush insistently and enter. This time the strokes of his hand are barely enough to keep Gokudera's whine of pain where it stays lodged in his throat. Then Yamamoto starts to move, breath panting out of him as he struggles to find coherency in action.
Gokudera manages to peek behind him; Yamamoto looks as if he's been hit by a train and happily so, with his hair askew and his arms quaking where they're wrapped around him, holding him in place. The other's nothing if a fast learner - he figures out what not to do almost immediately, adjusting himself in the right direction unconsciously. He's tempted to ask "How is it?", but then again Yamamoto doesn't look like he could give his own name right now if someone asked.
So it's a surprise when the other speaks up: "Am I...the first one here?"
"Don't make it sound like there'll be others." They pause, sharing a kiss, heads tilted awkwardly. The touch is chaste, joyful even, somehow soul-shaking in its simplicity. Gokudera revels, wallows in this previous unknown sensation. They really are, in all the romantic notions of the word, making love. "Yeah, you're the first." And then more tentatively, "What - what about for you?"
Yamamoto's smile is pure like a child's - Gokudera can see the shadow of his fourteen-year-old self, wiping the sweat from baseball practice with his dirty sleeve, grinning at him like an whole army of Squalos couldn't bring him down - when he answers, "Wasn't ever anybody but you."
And Gokudera has to wonder how two twenty-seven-year-old sexually repressed saps ever found each other in this wide, wide world.
Yamamoto moves faster now, more urgently. Gokudera can feel himself quicken in return, lurching back and forth in the welcoming grasp of his partner, lover, whatever, he's getting his brains blown out by the useless ex-baseball idiot who's just found that so-rumored magical spot. He must have bucked hard into the other, because Yamamoto actually pauses for a moment before driving home there again. He feels like he's choking, he's being blinded by stars on all sides, he manages to think it's a miracle two people as clumsy in emotions as they are managed to get this far together.
And then the pace is tossed aside for Yamamoto's inner sense of frantic energy, teetering towards some undeniable climax to come, impatient as the incoming tide. Gokudera feels the other pant against his neck, haa-ha, haa-haa, and clenches his eyes tight. His hands, balanced against the couch, clutch each other in some mad parody of praying to God above. He squeezes, feels every bit of Yamamoto outlined inside of him, silhouetted with no pretenses, no masks to hide behind - and then the other is comingcomingcoming shuddering with release, crying his name aloud with completion.
He lets the other collapse on the other side of the couch with a sigh before he takes himself in hand, jerks a couple times before he comes too, Yamamoto's intense gold eyes mirrored behind his eyelids. Only Yamamoto's ever looked at him like that - deeply, as if he wasn't sure how but he'd know soon all there was to know about him. He doesn't want to admit that's all it takes to set him off sometimes in a frantic hissy fit to get away from that temptation - that damn face with that damn scar, smiling gently enough to lift him past life's daily troubles, a touch from those big hands, that damn carefree laugh.
Yamamoto crawls towards him when he's done, swipes a wad of tissues across his belly from the tissue box on the coffee table. Then their arms find the spaces they left before, and they're collapsing side-by-side, legs entangled, noses touching. Yamamoto kisses him once on each cheek, watching the blush spread itself slowly and reluctantly to his ears. "Hello," he says, as a way of opening conversation.
"You're a cuddling conversationalist type after sex, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't know," Yamamoto answers honestly, "never been in this position before."
Gokudera opens and then closes his mouth. Finally he mutters, just a tad irritated and a whole lot embarrassed, "What about dinner? We never finished."
"We'll heat it up. In a couple of minutes..." And with that the other sighs, puts forehead to Gokudera's lips, and closes his eyes. Within seconds he's asleep, eyes moving from unseen dreams. Gokudera holds him, exasperated yet completely unwilling to move a single inch at the moment. After the other starts to nuzzle (unconsciously? consciously?) against him, he draws away, cold and still a bit hungry.
He bats the other's cheek with careful hands. "Hey," he mutters, "get up. Time for food." All he gets in reply is a soft snore as Yamamoto falls deeper into dreamland.
Huffing a resigned smile, he presses a kiss to Yamamoto's forehead anyway, before extracting himself carefully from the lump of satisfied man-on-the-couch. He covers the other with a spare fleece blanket before returning to the kitchen, wincing at the crick in his hips. "Idiot," he growls, then louder, "Damn idiot." The green lump on the sofa doesn't move except for bare feet that scrunch into the safety of the blanket's warmth.
Gokudera is still glaring in the general direction of his partner - lover - when there finally comes a return murmur, "Go'derra..."
He returns to the other's side absently as if he's been doing it all along, picking up clothes on the way. "Go back to sleep," he amends for his harsh words earlier, "sleep." Eyelids drop closed, lashes curling delicately against Gokudera's thumb. He smooths curious fingers hesitantly over the ridge of one cheekbone, the straight bridge of Yamamoto's nose, the petal-soft give of lips. He's knows he's staring - there's nobody watching him storing the sensation of infinite closeness and comfort away, but still he's self-consciously in love.
"Idiot," he repeats, unsure of who he's talking about, knowing now it doesn't matter, as long as they stick together. It's usually impossible for him to be optimistic, but damn if he doesn't think it can only get better after this.
AUGH the sap! WHY DO I FAIL AT HUMOR? All I can write is angsty stuff, fluffy stuff, and deathfics. I'm tired of my own writing repertoire...how sad.
Author: anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Warning: NC-17. *nodnod*
Notes: In a perfect world, I see TYL!8059 getting together like this.
K. Never Been
The corridor is long, with dim lights lining both sides. Portraits of dead people framed in gold filigree zip past as they pound down the red carpet towards the end of the hall. His breath comes out in little huffs; Yamamoto doesn't seem like he's breathing at all, somehow sacrificing oxygen for speed. Gokudera feels like protesting, except they're in enemy grounds where silence is of the essence. That's why he doesn't complain about the death grip on his wrist or that he hasn't been able to put his gun back in its shoulder holster yet. Then he looks at Yamamoto's other hand and how the silver shines red on the Kintoki, and bites his lip to keep all the snappy comments in.
As they march down the look on the other's face begins to twist, sharpening into a single point of concentration on some faraway target. It is unfamiliar and chills him, that look that tells him There is a kill to be had, soon. He knows what Yamamoto is - Guardian, killer, crush - has grown up with him, eaten his food and bandaged him up, snored on his hospital bed and shoveled paperwork at him. It's just he thought he already knew all of his faces, that grin and that stupid laugh that rings up to the heavens while shaking down to his toes (that warm sound). The tired one after missions. The hidden one he rakes him with when he thinks Gokudera's not looking (that hot shudder of desire).
- oh but he wants to know what it feels like when that hunger finally becomes too much and Yamamoto comes at him with his passion in one hand and his determination in the other, reeling him in easy as prey -
He'd just never been on a mission with the stupid bastard before, that's all. Never seen him in action - never saw why the 9th's taken to borrowing Yamamoto every now and then to bulk up muscle during missions. Yamamoto never talks about it, always returns with an ear-to-ear grin and a cheery, "Didja miss me?" Gokudera always shoves off that arm, even now that they're older. Truthfully he misses it, since Yamamoto does it less these days; he's around less in general.
They run past a fat lady in blue and a Chinese vase that probably cost more than a couple of his paychecks. Yamamoto's sword leaves a trail of blood in the carpet, but after they find the traitor there won't be any need to cover up tracks. Everyone will know his crime, after all.
Abruptly Yamamoto lets go and begins to sprint down the hall. With a grumbled curse Gokudera follows - and runs smack into the other's chest when he turns around. They've come to the end of the hall; a set of double-doors etched with flowers leading to a conference room beyond. The other leans the sword against the wall carefully and clasped the top of Gokudera's arms. They stare at each other for a moment, Gokudera rubbing his forehead where he'd crashed into Yamamoto's chin, Yamamoto just looking at him, as if still debating the words to say.
The look goes so long Gokudera wonders if there is some earth-shattering epiphany to be had. He fights down a blush from the attention, thinking of hugging a thorn tree; pouring salt on an open wound; gay men in aprons - fuck, not the last one. "What?," he manages to ask, throat closing around the words.
"Stay here," Yamamoto says firmly. When Gokudera opens his mouth to protest he adds quickly, "I mean it."
The bomber is confused, then as the idea unfurls in his head he becomes unspeakably furious at this turn of events; he opens and closes his mouth as if he could convey with his eyes alone how little he thinks of Yamamoto now. Disbelief chases irate anger around his head: This is a two-man mission, he wanted to say, that means you AND me! But Yamamoto just shakes his head after a moment, picks up his sword, and turns to go into the room alone.
Gokudera finally finds his voice, and jerks the other's arm back vengefully, hissing, "You bastard, you can't -"
The look Yamamoto gives him in that moment could have frozen flames in mid-leap. He is so used to the friendly little touches on his shoulder and arm, lingering with comfortable affection; the soft gaze across a crowded room of family members; sparse words, coupled with that idiotic laugh. The idiocy that endears to me now, after enduring it so long. This just can't be him, with a mask made of granite and pupils like flecks of shattered steel, throwing him back easily with a strength he's never held against his friends. Gokudera is a friend, wasn't he? What - what is this all about, he's so confused, it just can't be the same person he'd smiled with yesterday -
Something in his expression must've given away the betrayed feeling of the whole damn setup, because Yamamoto's face tightens that much more before he slips inside the door. There comes a snatch of startled conversation from inside before the door shuts in his face, and then he really is standing outside with that damndest blank look on his face, wondering just what the fuck had just happened. This is Yamamoto, wasn't it? - Yamamoto who plays catch with the kids and keeps a neverending supply of teabags for after-practice consumption. Passed out handmade chocolates to everyone last Valentine's Day. The one that wakes him with that soft look on his face when he falls asleep on the couch in the 10th's office (it makes him want to tug forward until there was no distance between them at all; watch as that look of surprise morphs into something infinitely warmer and loving).
From inside there comes a sudden, muffled yell. Then there comes gunfire - by now Gokudera is tugging at the doorknob, finding it locked from the inside. He's about to blow it off its hinges when he remembers that look, the ice-cool one Yamamoto had given him. It'd never be bravado or ambition that drove Yamamoto to keep him out of this; something personal then? But what could -
The walls and floor rumble around him. Pressing a hand to the ground he recognizes the tremors - the little EZ-bombs he'd developed and distributed last month, with built-in trigger-lighters for those who can't light them automatically like he can. They packed a punch as well as a loud bang that could be used as a signal; the only weakness was that they had a rather small blast radius, which meant the enemies have to be specifically lured into an area or close enough for Yamamoto to blast-and-dodge. Both of these instances worry him.
Decidedly he puts his hand on the door again. Yet he hesitates to flick out a dynamite and enter - it isn't that they're trying to be secretive now, whoever is left in the mansion will be coming to investigate soon. Was that why Yamamoto left him out here, to clean up some trash? That little shit, if that's really what he meant, he'll be getting it when they -
A rattle of machine gunfire from inside makes his heart stop. Bullets against swords - not good, not possible. Yamamoto's a damn good swordsman, not a teleporter or a magician. There comes another patter of rapid-fire before the sound is abruptly joined with the roar of another machine gun in some sort of sick rat-tat-tat! rhythm that resounds in his insides like a mad chorus of rattling ping-pong balls. His stomach churns disgustingly with worry and panic - Yamamoto is important to the family, important to him, he's even willing to admit that now - there are still things that needed to be said between them. It's too soon for the other to disappear, but then again who can go up against such impossible odds?
Then all of a sudden the sounds stop. The room falls silent while Gokudera stands there, hand on the golden doorknob, debating with himself on what to do. The lack of sound sends a renewed pit of dread down to his stomach; unbelievabilities abound: the unreality of Yamamoto dead versus being stuck here, alone, without even a means to retrieve the other's body. He's still frantically running though worst-case scenarios in his head when the lock clicks open, and Yamamoto steps out. He seems surprised that Gokudera is right behind the door; as he slides back into view Gokudera thanks whoever is still up there that there doesn't seem to be holes anywhere on the other. In fact, there didn't seem to be a stain on him whatsoever - no blood anywhere except for his sword, which drips with even more red. The other is so eerily clean, he just can't believe it. The frightening part is along with that cleanliness is a frigid kind of wide-eyed void of emotion in his face, the kind that abandoned children show when the world has deserted them. Seeing it Gokudera begins to close the door absently, faintly catching to the idea that it was better not to look inside and see the results of Yamamoto's craft. The door refuses to close, though, it bounces back after being caught on something -
They both look down. A hand is there, connected to an arm. As they watch a head and shoulders gurgles into view, bleeding from a pulped-up eye and various cuts, a living corpse latched around Yamamoto's ankle. Gokudera retreats backwards in surprise and revulsion; Yamamoto's hand snaps out and holds the door before it can swing further open. "'Scusi," he murmurs - why is he speaking Italian? - and pushes the corpse back inside with his foot. The sword creeps behind the door again. A moment later there comes a crunch, and Yamamoto pulls his leg free with an expressionless shake of his foot in the air. Then, as if suddenly remembering Gokudera is there, asks, "You got any more of those middle-radius bombs?"
Wordlessly Gokudera hands one over - trying to suppress his shock - along with a lighter. Yamamoto lights the stick, tosses it inside, then shuts the door. A few seconds later it goes off with a whoosh of gunpowder, but the two of them aren't paying attention any longer, they're already headed towards their escape route through the servant's side exit. While they trot quickly down the stairs, he chances a look at the swordsman, afraid it might be that void look again - but Yamamoto just looks thoughtful now. A gleam of his old self can be seen under that muddle of bunched eyebrows, Gokudera is relieved to note. He doesn't know how to deal with the other, the one that pushes him so easily, as if he never mattered.
------------
It is only halfway through the drive home that Yamamoto speaks. "Well, that went pretty well, don't you think?"
"Thanks to you." Gokudera slouches restlessly in the passenger seat. All he's done for the last hour is watch the frosty look on his partner's face melt slowly but surely into his regular relaxed expression.
Yamamoto glances at him. "We can tell Tsuna the good news. Why don't you give him a call?"
I don't want to call the 10th right now, Gokudera wants to snap back, I'm more occupied with trying to puzzle you out. But all he says instead is, "You did all the work. You call him," surily with a deep frown.
Yamamoto tries another tactic. "What do you want to eat tonight?"
"...Anything's fine."
"Pasta? That place Basil recommended -"
"I said anything's fine."
He can see Yamamoto was fighting down the urge to sigh petulantly. The light turns green; they follow the train of cars moving forward. They're nearing the apartment. The swordsman is already looking for a parking spot. Finally Gokudera points out one, just a tad impatient and frustrated, and they pull smoothly into the space. Neither have any equipment to carry in, unlike other assignments, so they just saunter up to the front door. Gokudera casts one last look at the car before entering into the foyer behind Yamamoto -
- his eyes widen and like a river unleashed, the deluge of desperate words come flooding back when he sees the giant black bloodstain on the back of Yamamoto's jacket. "Where - where -," he struggles for a phrase in something other than an octave higher than normal, "what happened to your back are you hurt?"
"Huh?," Yamamoto turns to face him, key in the apartment door. "Oh. No. That's someone else's. It'll come off the leather seats, so don't worry." And then he unlocks the damn door and strolls into the apartment.
That's not what I -, he begins in his head, and curses his pride for getting in his way of actually admitting he's worried. It's just all so new, this Yamamoto who walks and talks like an empty shell of peanut brittle, whole only to people who don't know him. Following the other into the kitchen, he watches as the jacket peels away to reveal a bloody-backed shirt, and then nothing but the bare tanned skin of Yamamoto's back, marked here and there with scars. He forces down the urge to look away or stutter out a "change in the bathroom, bastard!"; it isn't as if the view is anything new, just a part of him lurches more than ever before to reach out and touch it, feel it give under his fingers for once. But that would lead to a lot of things that he isn't sure either of them were prepared for yet.
"Give me a second and I'll head out again. It's called Lyrie, isn't it? The one on the junction of Montescue and Judicare?" The voice echoes through the hallway, bouncing off the happy pictures on the walls. Smiling people - him smiling, Yamamoto smiling, the two of them forever children captured in glossy print, wood-framed and glass-preserved. He traces the little magnetic foam frame on the fridge, the one that has the picture taken on his birthday when he was wearing the new ring Yamamoto had given him; it twinkles on his finger even now, a carefree twist of onyx and platinum. The two of them were looking uncomfortably off-screen to opposite sides of the picture, even though they were standing so close together. Yamamoto has one hand tightly clasped around the holster that holds Kintoki, Gokudera can see his whitened knuckles even here. What was making him nervous?
The faintest cracks of understanding are beginning to seep into his skull. There were times when Yamamoto didn't come to school that he'd chalked up to negligence or other obligations, far before when Gokudera started taking assignments. They'd been saying it all along, hadn't they, that Yamamoto was a born hitman. He had the strength and the innate talent for it - like a good assassin he'd trained to the level where it wasn't just killing anymore, it was an art. How long had the rest of the family been spared from dirtying their hands? How long had he taken those black 'hit' folders without a complaint, flying back to the family afterwards with a scrimitar smile so round it might just snap?
He'd always suspected - he'd always known - Yamamoto has a heart big enough for all of those he wants to protect, and nothing can keep him from keeping them safe. It's part of why after all these years, those shy little glances he wants to deny make his heart pound so loud in his ears, he recognizes what his selfish heart wants.
The front door closes, jolting him from his daydream. He shakes himself from his idle thoughts and runs to the door, jerking it open. Yamamoto is just stepping down the next half-flight of stairs, a crisp blue polo under his beige sports jacket. "Wait," Gokudera calls, grabs his keys and hurries down to where the other has stopped, looking up at him. "Wait, don't go to Lyrie."
Maybe it's something in his voice, but the swordsman blinks, confused yet somehow undisguisedly hopeful. Stupid bastard could never hide his emotions in front of me for long. "You've been there before? Is it bad or -"
"No - that's not it. Just...," and how should he say this one? "Just...stay at home. Rest or something."
Yamamoto remains unswayed. "Basil said it was good, and plus it'd be nice to eat out since we're both here for once -"
"No." He's nervous; his keys jingle on the end of his finger against his rings. He looks up at the stairs above (a spider spins a web in the corner), out the window (a green car rumbles by; a dog barks from the building next door), anywhere but at the other. Finally he settles on the front tips of Yamamoto's sneakers as the silence drags a little too long. "Just - just stay at home." He takes a deep breath, "I'll...I'll cook. Or something."
The other stares at him, protests building in the back of his eyes. But it's strange, he's never been more sure of anything - today Yamamoto has given him a taste of another face, risking the tentative balance of their friendship and rivalry, in hopes Gokudera will understand the changes happening in him. It's time to repay that, he reflects. Maybe it's time to take the next step. Maybe we're ready.
"Ok," Yamamoto agrees, following him back up. The gaze that bores into his back is made of both curious and ill-masked eagerness; Gokudera finds himself wanting to answer both tonight - somehow.
He makes his way back to the kitchen (he said he was going to make something, but they were both out so often, did they even have anything in the fridge?), eyes catching the picture on the magnet frame. He wants to change the photo to something more meaningful than the two of them randomly standing around and getting their picture taken. Tearing his eyes away he digs through the fridge. Some vegetables, not too old. There is olive oil and sundried tomatoes in the cupboard; a bit of fish and Italian spice mix to rub it down with. And of course, pasta in the pantry, fresh pepper in the pepper grinder and rosemary on the windowsill. He sets to work, thawing the fish in the microwave and tossing the bell peppers into the toaster oven to bubble off the skins.
When he turns around his heart almost stops again - Yamamoto is seated there at the coffee table, completely silent and observing his every motion. It is creepily stalkery but also vaguely flattering - he used to follow the 10th around like that (before the other Guardians became more Guardian-like). "Need me to help?," comes the inevitable question; Gokudera just waves him away, uncomfortable under that piercing gaze. After cutting up the tomatoes and bell peppers he peeks back to ask where the middle-sized frying pan might be, when he realizes Yamamoto's head is pillowed on his arms, face down to the table, shoulders rising and falling smoothly in rest.
He takes a moment to take in the rarity - after Yamamoto became a real member of the family he's only become more tight-lipped on his own feelings, on Gokudera or otherwise. Seeing those walls down and that vulnerability bared so easily makes him want to push back that wave of I don't just want him, I want to be there for him, but they're twenty-seven already, he knows better than to deny it any longer.
He clangs around the kitchen as quietly as he can after that. From the lowered set of shoulders he can tell the other is exhausted (and he hadn't helped, had he, hadn't even offered to drive home, he'd just nursed that stupid anger like the idiot he keeps referring to Yamamoto as). Finally he's done tossing in the cheese and vegetables, sprinkled it all liberally with pepper, and can't wait anymore. He nudges the other first, watching as that face turned sideways, frowning a little, before settling back down.
"Yamamoto," he calls softly, and the swordsman blinks awake. Gokudera pushes the plate on the table towards him, along with a fork and napkin. "Dig in before I change my mind and give it to someone who'll appreciate it more."
There - the faint ghost of real amusement flits briefly across Yamamoto's face. "I do appreciate it," he murmurs in return, and twirls the noodles onto his fork. "Where's yours?"
"Here," Gokudera gestures, and brings over his own plate. They eat mostly in silence, only asking what the other might want to drink, who would call Tsuna after dinner. The inane talk seems to make the silence echo even louder.
It's at this time that Gokudera happens to look up - and freezes. Yamamoto is eating as fast as he can while being completely silent (like Gokudera taught him to do when they first came to Italy), but what his eyes catch on are those lips, between which noodles are disappearing. They are followed by red peppers, and then - chew, chew, chew - they're slightly pink and shiny from the olive oil he'd tossed the vegetables in, he really doesn't think he can take this -
But then Yamamoto picks up another forkful and thoughtfully forks some fish as well, and then brings it to his mouth. Gokudera watches in horror as his eyes drop closed as he chomps down on the food. Appreciate it indeed. The way he looks doesn't help either, like he really is enjoying every bite, is thinking about him in every bite -
- he looks down at his own plate. He doesn't know, doesn't care if Yamamoto saw him staring. They've been beating around the proverbial mulberry bush that they've become the synonym for repressed sex jokes back at headquarters. That should change, shouldn't it? It isn't going to be like this forever, no it's NOT.
Finally Gokudera can't stand it anymore, and mutters into his plate, "Don't hold back."
Yamamoto blinks more times in a row than Gokudera has ever seen him do. "Excuse me?," comes the inevitable reply.
Completely red to the tips of his ears now, he jerks his chair back as he gets up to refill his plate. "I said Don't hold back." Next time just let me see all of it; I'm not a child you need to shelter. And then, just to make it sound less weird: "I - I mean, the pasta. There's more on the counter, I can't possibly eat all of that. Yeah..." The last word comes out like a sigh, a burden finally unloaded.
He plops down in his seat again, combing his bangs down to shield him from embarrassment. He just knows Yamamoto was doing that gentle little yearning expression that seems to shine out from his heart instead of his eyes, the one that tells him he's finally doing something right. Unwillingly his eyes flicker up to meet the other's, catching the warmth that lurks there in the corners of those almond-shaped eyes, swimming with some soulful emotion. He wonders if now was the opportune moment he'd been waiting for -
Slowly he stands back up, pushed the plates to one side. Then he leans in, stomach digging into the side, until he's all the way over the smooth, narrow face of the table. He dabs at the corner of Yamamoto's mouth with a napkin to catch an imaginary crumb - they're so close now Gokudera can smell sweetness of the bell peppers in the other's breath - and then sets the napkin down without looking. Their eyes are locked; he gazes half-challengingly, half-apprehensively into Yamamoto's eyes. There is nothing new here either; he's seen the darker gold ring around the irises, he's seen how those eyes light up when he shoves a birthday present at his chest with a snarl that could mean anything, he's seen them reflect all the colors of the goddamn sun whose Ring neither of them have. They share breath; if Yamamoto really was shy about it he could move back. But he stays where he is, inhaling the moment as if struck speechless.
"Take it," Gokudera mutters finally. His voice is husky and rougher than he means for it to be. He nudges the plates even further away, in fear for the safety of their contents. "You want it, don't you?" Yamamoto's eyes go sharp and flat all at once; his breath flares out of him in a hushed gasp. "Then take it." Gokudera is unyielding, he stares into those eyes because he can't look away, he's watching every emotion flit across Yamamoto's face and it comes to him that they've known each other for a damn long time, almost half of their lives.
He reaches forward, one hand on the tabletop for balance. "Take -"
He never finishes, because Yamamoto slams his lips on his as if it's his goddamn last night to be alive, and he's going out with no regrets. Gokudera struggles for purchase on the slippery table, but finally just gives up. Yamamoto's mouth is harshly warm, soft tongue sliding as their mouths open. He feels as naked as a lab rat laid out on the experimental stretcher - Yamamoto is tearing away his defenses, finding his weaknesses as sure and straight as if he's known them all his life. He gives in to that relentless pressure, finds the bite of Yamamoto's teeth around his lips, gives a yearning whimper as he clasps the hands that hold his shirt hostage.
And then without warning Yamamoto seizes him under the arms (what was he doing?) and drags him over the table in one swift movement (I'm twenty-seven, dammit! Not a child - twenty-seven, same as you!) into his lap. Gokudera gasps where the collar of his shirt chafes his neck, but all complaints are soon swallowed up by hands making short of his buttons and tie. Yamamoto dips in for a taste again, nose bumping against his collarbone; Gokudera's straddling his long legs, their hips so close together, it's just torturous. He leans back against the table so the other can close his lips around one blissful nipple; the other finds itself teased between fingers, so that Gokudera is straining and squirming in his seat, little huffs of breath echoing in the empty air. Yamamoto moans in return, a sound so raw and unrestrained, vibrating against Gokudera's chest that he squeezes the other's upper arms in return to tell him he feels it too, feels they can't possibly have enough time in the world to make this happen.
The table behind him gives a surprised screech as Yamamoto picks him up, age and all, and dumps him on the couch. Then he swings one leg over his hip and hovers there above, completely serious and concentrated. The unrivaled attention usually makes him blush and look in some other direction, but now Gokudera just reaches up with both hands, brings that face down to meet his. Yamamoto adorns his mouth, his cheeks, his chin with kisses. He feathers over his fluttering eyelids with his lips, before nuzzling nose-to-nose, smiling. His heart is about to beat out of his chest; from where his hand is over Yamamoto's heart he feels the same trembling excitement purring through the other.
Time seems to be going backwards; he feels sixteen again as Yamamoto fumbles with his belt and zipper. He can't stop the breathy, vulnerable little sounds when Yamamoto palms him through his slacks, makes his hips rise and roll to the movement of some unseen orchestra. The two of them are falling together like they've done this in a past life, and in the life before that - he knows the feel of sweat-moistened skin, tanned beneath his spread fingers as their hips clash, arching together until stars come out like the night behind his eyelids. He knows he's panting the other's name - "Ya-ma, mo-to, Ya-ma, oh-ohh..." - the other repeats his in time, foreheads pressed together as their eyes meet. Then it's all lips again, and Yamamoto's tugging and flinging away the last of their clothes, sitting him up to nibble delectably on his ear.
They're not taking it too fast. They're not taking it too slow. The only thing that's really wrong is that they're doing it on the couch, but in the light of the full circumstances that's excusable. He's going just right, Gokudera thinks wonderingly, we just fall into pace so easily. The other seems unsurprised, though. He doesn't hesitate to smooth one hand over his side, tracing his ribs, before drifting lower, to -
He can't suppress the shuddering gasp that rises out of him when Yamamoto closes around him, slightly sticky and so hot he might just burn away into ashes at the sensation. Experimentally the other moves once, a short up-down caress, but already Gokudera can't bear to look down for the sight of sword-calloused hands studiously memorizing the feel of him. His hands are weakly pushing Yamamoto away as he sets a rhythm, eyes never leaving his face. The gaze is as hot as his fingers; Gokudera throws his head back against the back cushions as his hands paw at the other's chest, trembling weakly there against his broad shoulders. His lungs cry for breath, his feet curl and uncurl, his blood is all rushing to his head and he can't think up pretty little phrases to describe the situation anymore because it's so unrestrained, so impossibly good.
Yamamoto puts lip to forearm, sucking slightly. Gokudera's hands push harder, voice sobbing for more: "Stop! Stop before I -"
The other does pause. "Gokudera?" And damn if there isn't a rough grate of desire in the other's voice.
"Stop before I c-come." His hands steady on shoulders as he brings the other's head down towards him. They lean against each other, Gokudera furiously thinking of the right way to say it. Well, since we're having sex anyway...might as well.., "Not this way. I want -"
He shivers in, cheek-to-cheek, delirious with lust. The way the other only sees him - he doesn't want those eyes to wander anywhere else, anyone else. "I want you in me," he whispers at last, and backs away in time to see those gold eyes go flat and hazy with accumulated midnight fantasies.
Too carefully it seems, Yamamoto hugs him close for a second, eyes closing with some unspeakable emotion. "Alright," he says - it sounds suspiciously like thank you, Yamamoto's always been a polite boy - and gets up. "I'll be right back." There comes a clatter of plastic bottles and cups from the bathroom (he can see the other knocking over things with shaking hands, trying to find something, anything that might work as lube), before the other reappears with something green and fruity the girls left the last time they used the apartment for a sleepover party. "Got it," the other's smile trembles on the verge of disbelief as he reenters the living room.
Now that there is distance between them again, it seems hard to breach the silence. Yamamoto hovers uncertainly around the couch, hair sticking up where Gokudera ran his fingers through it, feet undoubtedly chilly against the tile floor. Gokudera wonders if the other thinks he is having second thoughts about offering - he doesn't regret it; it is just like the other to worry when it comes to him - he raises a hand and beckons the other wordlessly. Relieved, Yamamoto crosses the threshold into the warmth of his arms again, still slightly sticking to his fingers with sweat, hands clenched tightly around the little bottle before he abandons it for Gokudera's hips, squeezing, tracing as if physically mapping every bit of him.
"Like you," he murmurs when they finally part for breath. "Always liked you."
Gokudera can't help but snort into his hair; it tickles against his nose. "More than you should have."
"You didn't help things." He can feel the grin press against his neck.
"No, I didn't," Gokudera answers, taking Yamamoto's honest route.
They move into position - Yamamoto kisses every ridge and hollow of his spine while he eases one slicked finger in, Gokudera falters where his face is against the couch rest, still Yamamoto doesn't give, just patiently massages until the tension in Gokudera's shoulders relaxes miniscully, then more and more as the sensation becomes familiar. Yamamoto adds a finger - again he jerks, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. The other licks a warm trail over his shoulder blade, tracing up to the vulnerable spot where neck meets back. Both of them can hardly stand it, they're tottering with sensations overflowing like a whole tower of champagne glasses.
Yamamoto shifts behind him, there's no mistake where this is going - yet his pounding heart tells him he's not afraid, he's only waiting patiently as the other runs big hands over his back, around his chest, down his sides to cup his hips. "Gokudera?," comes the soft question. He feels like he's fourteen again, when he entrusted his life to this sword-happy lug for the first time.
He nods. Suddenly the other's hand closes around him again, startling him with slow, steady strokes. He falls back into that beat, hips twitching in the grip of Yamamoto's other hand where it holds him as still as possible. He's building up again when he feels that hand leave, and something brush insistently and enter. This time the strokes of his hand are barely enough to keep Gokudera's whine of pain where it stays lodged in his throat. Then Yamamoto starts to move, breath panting out of him as he struggles to find coherency in action.
Gokudera manages to peek behind him; Yamamoto looks as if he's been hit by a train and happily so, with his hair askew and his arms quaking where they're wrapped around him, holding him in place. The other's nothing if a fast learner - he figures out what not to do almost immediately, adjusting himself in the right direction unconsciously. He's tempted to ask "How is it?", but then again Yamamoto doesn't look like he could give his own name right now if someone asked.
So it's a surprise when the other speaks up: "Am I...the first one here?"
"Don't make it sound like there'll be others." They pause, sharing a kiss, heads tilted awkwardly. The touch is chaste, joyful even, somehow soul-shaking in its simplicity. Gokudera revels, wallows in this previous unknown sensation. They really are, in all the romantic notions of the word, making love. "Yeah, you're the first." And then more tentatively, "What - what about for you?"
Yamamoto's smile is pure like a child's - Gokudera can see the shadow of his fourteen-year-old self, wiping the sweat from baseball practice with his dirty sleeve, grinning at him like an whole army of Squalos couldn't bring him down - when he answers, "Wasn't ever anybody but you."
And Gokudera has to wonder how two twenty-seven-year-old sexually repressed saps ever found each other in this wide, wide world.
Yamamoto moves faster now, more urgently. Gokudera can feel himself quicken in return, lurching back and forth in the welcoming grasp of his partner, lover, whatever, he's getting his brains blown out by the useless ex-baseball idiot who's just found that so-rumored magical spot. He must have bucked hard into the other, because Yamamoto actually pauses for a moment before driving home there again. He feels like he's choking, he's being blinded by stars on all sides, he manages to think it's a miracle two people as clumsy in emotions as they are managed to get this far together.
And then the pace is tossed aside for Yamamoto's inner sense of frantic energy, teetering towards some undeniable climax to come, impatient as the incoming tide. Gokudera feels the other pant against his neck, haa-ha, haa-haa, and clenches his eyes tight. His hands, balanced against the couch, clutch each other in some mad parody of praying to God above. He squeezes, feels every bit of Yamamoto outlined inside of him, silhouetted with no pretenses, no masks to hide behind - and then the other is comingcomingcoming shuddering with release, crying his name aloud with completion.
He lets the other collapse on the other side of the couch with a sigh before he takes himself in hand, jerks a couple times before he comes too, Yamamoto's intense gold eyes mirrored behind his eyelids. Only Yamamoto's ever looked at him like that - deeply, as if he wasn't sure how but he'd know soon all there was to know about him. He doesn't want to admit that's all it takes to set him off sometimes in a frantic hissy fit to get away from that temptation - that damn face with that damn scar, smiling gently enough to lift him past life's daily troubles, a touch from those big hands, that damn carefree laugh.
Yamamoto crawls towards him when he's done, swipes a wad of tissues across his belly from the tissue box on the coffee table. Then their arms find the spaces they left before, and they're collapsing side-by-side, legs entangled, noses touching. Yamamoto kisses him once on each cheek, watching the blush spread itself slowly and reluctantly to his ears. "Hello," he says, as a way of opening conversation.
"You're a cuddling conversationalist type after sex, aren't you?"
"I wouldn't know," Yamamoto answers honestly, "never been in this position before."
Gokudera opens and then closes his mouth. Finally he mutters, just a tad irritated and a whole lot embarrassed, "What about dinner? We never finished."
"We'll heat it up. In a couple of minutes..." And with that the other sighs, puts forehead to Gokudera's lips, and closes his eyes. Within seconds he's asleep, eyes moving from unseen dreams. Gokudera holds him, exasperated yet completely unwilling to move a single inch at the moment. After the other starts to nuzzle (unconsciously? consciously?) against him, he draws away, cold and still a bit hungry.
He bats the other's cheek with careful hands. "Hey," he mutters, "get up. Time for food." All he gets in reply is a soft snore as Yamamoto falls deeper into dreamland.
Huffing a resigned smile, he presses a kiss to Yamamoto's forehead anyway, before extracting himself carefully from the lump of satisfied man-on-the-couch. He covers the other with a spare fleece blanket before returning to the kitchen, wincing at the crick in his hips. "Idiot," he growls, then louder, "Damn idiot." The green lump on the sofa doesn't move except for bare feet that scrunch into the safety of the blanket's warmth.
Gokudera is still glaring in the general direction of his partner - lover - when there finally comes a return murmur, "Go'derra..."
He returns to the other's side absently as if he's been doing it all along, picking up clothes on the way. "Go back to sleep," he amends for his harsh words earlier, "sleep." Eyelids drop closed, lashes curling delicately against Gokudera's thumb. He smooths curious fingers hesitantly over the ridge of one cheekbone, the straight bridge of Yamamoto's nose, the petal-soft give of lips. He's knows he's staring - there's nobody watching him storing the sensation of infinite closeness and comfort away, but still he's self-consciously in love.
"Idiot," he repeats, unsure of who he's talking about, knowing now it doesn't matter, as long as they stick together. It's usually impossible for him to be optimistic, but damn if he doesn't think it can only get better after this.
AUGH the sap! WHY DO I FAIL AT HUMOR? All I can write is angsty stuff, fluffy stuff, and deathfics. I'm tired of my own writing repertoire...how sad.