[8059] What Yamamoto Realized
Title: What Yamamoto Realized
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angst, romance
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera (8059)
Summary: Four times Yamamoto realized life wasn't a game.
Warnings: Mentions of sexual situations, some language (,blood?)
Disclaimer: Amano Akira owns blaa.
Notes: First KHR fic, lulz.
What Yamamoto Realized
The first time Yamamoto realized it all actually wasn’t a children’s game was when the bandage he had wrapped around Gokudera’s chest continued to soak with blood, no matter how many times he changed it or how thick the band-aid on top of the wound was. His fingers were red, and the crimson liquid curved around the digits in almost decorative shapes; there was brown and nearly black crust under his nails and it disgusted him, made him so nauseous he wanted to throw up right there, but then Gokudera whimpered in a manner that was completely different than Gokudera and Yamamoto swallowed the queasiness that threatened to overcome him and pulling yet another long strap of bandage from the roll, began to tend the deep gash on his companion’s temple.
Gokudera cried out as Yamamoto’s fingertips brushed on his bruised skin and it took all of Yamamoto’s self-control not to cry out too - instead, he talked, his voice never wavering when it told Gokudera of that one baseball game he had been in so many years ago, when he had still been a child and when everything serious and difficult became easy by pretending it was easy. Yamamoto remembered how he had admired the players and how he had wished to become one too, but that had been the time when friends had been just friends and not something necessary and vital for him to live.
His story, that had lost its meaning the second it had revived memories of peace and dreams and safe, ended abruptly when Gokudera’s eyes glazed over and closed. Yamamoto’s movements froze.
”Hayato… Hayato!”
~
The second time Yamamoto realized it all really actually wasn’t a children’s game was when Gokudera grinned up at him, the all-too-familiar red staining his teeth and lips. Yamamoto hit his knee on Gokudera’s thigh as he kneeled next to the battered man, his experienced hands quick in their examination on the silver-haired man’s injuries.
They were alone in the alley, save for the three now definitely dead assassins Gokudera had successfully bombed to afterlife, and it was raining so hard Yamamoto didn’t know if his friend’s skin felt colder because of the blood loss or the chilling temperature. Maybe it was both - Yamamoto just didn’t know anymore.
“Yamamoto,” Gokudera said in a raspy voice, interrupting the addressed man’s thoughts. Yamamoto looked at the other, and hated the sickly pale face, hated the eyes that were half-lidded for so different reasons than Yamamoto would’ve liked, and hated the red splatters on his face that shone out like blazing warning signs.
“Yeah?” The tone was strangled, terrified. Yamamoto knew Gokudera heard it, and he knew Gokudera would tease him for it had the situation been any different.
Gokudera’s chuckle turned into a rattling cough. Yamamoto wondered when rainwater had started to taste so salty.
“You sound like a fucking wimp, Yamamoto,” Gokudera said after the coughing subsided.
And Yamamoto smiled a strained smile; he should’ve known he never did know Gokudera that well.
~
The third time Yamamoto realized it all really, really actually wasn’t a children’s game was when his eyes were tired, bloodshot and when his muscles hurt from sitting and lying down for days and doing nothing, and when his heart felt so heavy he was sure it was going to collapse on itself. His arm was broken, three of his ribs were crushed and the cuts on his cheeks were healing too slowly for his liking, but then Yamamoto looked over to the bed beside him and saw Gokudera’s comatose figure, and felt like his body had never been in better condition.
Yamamoto studied the calm face - he was surprised someone who scowled continuously at everyone and everything could look so dramatically different when asleep; Yamamoto refused to call it a coma, since the word sounded like a curse to his ears - and wished the eyes would’ve opened and that mouth would’ve shouted insults at him, hell, he would’ve even taken the punches delivered by those fists gladly, anything that would have broken the silence and stopped the dread that, despite his best efforts, was seeping into his chest and skin much too fast.
Four days later, when Yamamoto was deep in sleep, at 2:11 am, Gokudera’s eyelids fluttered and his chapped and dry lips formed the name they had never had the courage and too much pride to form before.
The next day Yamamoto told Gokudera of the dream he had had, in which Gokudera had called him by his first name.
Gokudera called him an idiot.
~
The fourth time Yamamoto realized it all really, definitely, actually wasn’t a children’s game was when he was panting and sliding his calloused palms along Gokudera’s naked sides, relishing the feel on surprisingly smooth skin against his, and when his slightly swollen lips met Gokudera’s in a heated, violent battle for dominance.
And Yamamoto knew he’d never get tired of hearing ‘Takeshi’ repeated over and over and over again.
fin.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angst, romance
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera (8059)
Summary: Four times Yamamoto realized life wasn't a game.
Warnings: Mentions of sexual situations, some language (,blood?)
Disclaimer: Amano Akira owns blaa.
Notes: First KHR fic, lulz.
What Yamamoto Realized
The first time Yamamoto realized it all actually wasn’t a children’s game was when the bandage he had wrapped around Gokudera’s chest continued to soak with blood, no matter how many times he changed it or how thick the band-aid on top of the wound was. His fingers were red, and the crimson liquid curved around the digits in almost decorative shapes; there was brown and nearly black crust under his nails and it disgusted him, made him so nauseous he wanted to throw up right there, but then Gokudera whimpered in a manner that was completely different than Gokudera and Yamamoto swallowed the queasiness that threatened to overcome him and pulling yet another long strap of bandage from the roll, began to tend the deep gash on his companion’s temple.
Gokudera cried out as Yamamoto’s fingertips brushed on his bruised skin and it took all of Yamamoto’s self-control not to cry out too - instead, he talked, his voice never wavering when it told Gokudera of that one baseball game he had been in so many years ago, when he had still been a child and when everything serious and difficult became easy by pretending it was easy. Yamamoto remembered how he had admired the players and how he had wished to become one too, but that had been the time when friends had been just friends and not something necessary and vital for him to live.
His story, that had lost its meaning the second it had revived memories of peace and dreams and safe, ended abruptly when Gokudera’s eyes glazed over and closed. Yamamoto’s movements froze.
”Hayato… Hayato!”
~
The second time Yamamoto realized it all really actually wasn’t a children’s game was when Gokudera grinned up at him, the all-too-familiar red staining his teeth and lips. Yamamoto hit his knee on Gokudera’s thigh as he kneeled next to the battered man, his experienced hands quick in their examination on the silver-haired man’s injuries.
They were alone in the alley, save for the three now definitely dead assassins Gokudera had successfully bombed to afterlife, and it was raining so hard Yamamoto didn’t know if his friend’s skin felt colder because of the blood loss or the chilling temperature. Maybe it was both - Yamamoto just didn’t know anymore.
“Yamamoto,” Gokudera said in a raspy voice, interrupting the addressed man’s thoughts. Yamamoto looked at the other, and hated the sickly pale face, hated the eyes that were half-lidded for so different reasons than Yamamoto would’ve liked, and hated the red splatters on his face that shone out like blazing warning signs.
“Yeah?” The tone was strangled, terrified. Yamamoto knew Gokudera heard it, and he knew Gokudera would tease him for it had the situation been any different.
Gokudera’s chuckle turned into a rattling cough. Yamamoto wondered when rainwater had started to taste so salty.
“You sound like a fucking wimp, Yamamoto,” Gokudera said after the coughing subsided.
And Yamamoto smiled a strained smile; he should’ve known he never did know Gokudera that well.
~
The third time Yamamoto realized it all really, really actually wasn’t a children’s game was when his eyes were tired, bloodshot and when his muscles hurt from sitting and lying down for days and doing nothing, and when his heart felt so heavy he was sure it was going to collapse on itself. His arm was broken, three of his ribs were crushed and the cuts on his cheeks were healing too slowly for his liking, but then Yamamoto looked over to the bed beside him and saw Gokudera’s comatose figure, and felt like his body had never been in better condition.
Yamamoto studied the calm face - he was surprised someone who scowled continuously at everyone and everything could look so dramatically different when asleep; Yamamoto refused to call it a coma, since the word sounded like a curse to his ears - and wished the eyes would’ve opened and that mouth would’ve shouted insults at him, hell, he would’ve even taken the punches delivered by those fists gladly, anything that would have broken the silence and stopped the dread that, despite his best efforts, was seeping into his chest and skin much too fast.
Four days later, when Yamamoto was deep in sleep, at 2:11 am, Gokudera’s eyelids fluttered and his chapped and dry lips formed the name they had never had the courage and too much pride to form before.
The next day Yamamoto told Gokudera of the dream he had had, in which Gokudera had called him by his first name.
Gokudera called him an idiot.
~
The fourth time Yamamoto realized it all really, definitely, actually wasn’t a children’s game was when he was panting and sliding his calloused palms along Gokudera’s naked sides, relishing the feel on surprisingly smooth skin against his, and when his slightly swollen lips met Gokudera’s in a heated, violent battle for dominance.
And Yamamoto knew he’d never get tired of hearing ‘Takeshi’ repeated over and over and over again.
fin.