cartography for beginners; KHR
I wrote this at five in the morning. I don't know, I like it a lot. Excuse lack of plot, lack of coherence and abundance of gay because I just don't know.
Title: cartography for beginners
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Genre: Fluff. The suffocating type.
Summary: Just innocent brushes of baby skin and chubby hands.
cartography for beginners
They spend a few years with their quiet affection. Nothing but hands held tight and kissing cheeks, just the smallest tryst, the sweetest romance; just Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher exchanging flowers, declarations of love, innocent brushes of baby skin and chubby hands. Yamamoto wears his goofy smile when they’re together. His eyes are wary. His face brightens.
Gokudera behaves no different, but he has a fresh composition hidden in his sock-drawer at home, hauntingly reminiscent of the Romantic Period, hauntingly condemning. Sometimes, he plays it when Yamamoto is lazing around his apartment, mindless and worriless and when Yamamoto asks, he looks into that cheerful, adoring face and says It’s a classic. And it is, to him, to Yamamoto. Pressed beneath Gokudera’s half-folded boxers and single socks is a masterpiece written in faded pen that blatantly ran out before the second melody was added, but that had continued to be used nonetheless. Gokudera will entitle it in future: what the fuck was I on?
It’s different for Yamamoto. There is no musicality to sport, no evocating sound, no emotional crescendo, nothing particularly telling in a plate of cold sushi, either. On his bedroom walls, photographs are scattered; Gokudera is pictured in almost every one, awkward and angry, and in the ones where he doesn’t notice the camera, he’s half-smiling and himself. Yamamoto only hides one away - neatly settled at the top of his box for baseball memorabilia. It’s them - Gokudera is looking up into the camera and smiling, just like Yamamoto had asked, looking perfectly content with Yamamoto’s arm wrapped around him, the side of Yamamoto’s forehead pressing against his. It will move homes in future; nestle itself into the front pocket of Yamamoto’s suit, then, when Gokudera unwinds, on their dresser, framed and for all eyes to see.
They kiss later than the rest of their friends, and Yamamoto’s certain it would be a horrible ordeal if it wasn’t Gokudera, because that first second of tense hands clutching shirts and pressing, sore lips is quickly out of the way, and Yamamoto leans down again because he wants so much of Gokudera he can’t fathom it, and if it bruises his mouth and breaks his heart, he could never bring himself to care because it’s him; it’s them. That second kiss flows like a scripted scene, up on tip-toes with their bodies pressed tight, one trembling, miniscule breath shared between them, and even though Yamamoto wished for it again and again, every over thought daydream, perfected fantasy can’t compare in the slightest - it’s them.
Tsuna doesn’t even know, doesn’t suspect anything to begin with. There are handful’s of kisses behind his back that Gokudera will initiate and later blame on Yamamoto, and too many for Yamamoto to count that he started, truthfully. Underneath the dining table in the Tenth’s house, in Takesushi, Yamamoto will squeeze Gokudera’s hand as tight as he can, fidget with rings and bracelets, trace along Gokudera’s pretty, narrow fingers. Gokudera will let out a soft little sigh before he squeezes back, and Nana Sawada and Tsuyoshi Yamamoto will pretend to be none the wiser.
A gradual ascent. Maybe it’s just a tad ridiculous, scandalous, maybe a thousand alpha-male mafioso in Italy would have their heads for it, but then again, it could just as easily be the most obvious, easiest thing in the world. Haru is the first of their friends to notice anything at all, intrusive and daringly bold. She picks up Yamamoto’s baseball jersey from Gokudera’s bedroom floor and that’s all there is to it; she grins wide. Silly boys, she says, and then Gokudera’ kicks her out for making his face turn a dozen varieties of red.
Bianchi announces it to the world after she barges in on them - Gokudera is teaching Yamamoto to bake, and he didn’t know what’s so particularly suggestive about it, but his sister is frighteningly eager - not to mention insightful - nonetheless. She calls their father and he sends his congratulations; she tells the Tenth and he hardly looks surprised, just vaguely dizzy. “Love,” she sighs grinning. Yamamoto is holding Gokudera back and rubbing his shoulders to keep him from leaping at her. “There’s love in your eyes, Hayato. I’m so proud.”
Yamamoto laughs and Gokudera kicks them both out before she can say a word more.
“Is that,” Yamamoto starts, lying with his back to Gokudera’s heavily locked door, smiling lazily, “so bad?” The thing is, Yamamoto’s so accustom to the feeling that he forgets what it means, surrounded by a wave of relations on every Namimori corner, a park full of cheering fans and a second family that think the world of him, always have. Gokudera is just - different. He has it; an apologetic father awaiting him somewhere home, a loving sister, the boss, the family, but it’s still so new. He’ll wake up some morning’s and Ryohei will be in his kitchen making a fry-up in preparation for an extreme morning jog, or Shamal will drop by some souvenirs from his trips to Italy and tidy his apartment a little, or Haru will be sitting on the other side of his bed, making him playlists on iTunes.
Most of the time, Yamamoto’s snuck in after practice and sits on his couch, fiddling with his PSP. He’ll shoot some blinding smile at Gokudera’s sleepy form, and he’ll say something stupid like, aha, I’m really bad at this; how did you get this far?; you look so cute in the mornings.
“Well?” Yamamoto asks, a grin audible in his voice, and Gokudera wordlessly reopens the door, wordlessly takes Yamamoto’s hand and pulls him back in. “Haha,” the idiot starts, looking painfully pleased with himself, drawing Gokudera up against him and nuzzling his face into white hair. “Don’t worry. I think I do, too.”
And Gokudera just smiles.
-
THE THINGS THESE BOYS DO TO ME.
Title: cartography for beginners
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Genre: Fluff. The suffocating type.
Summary: Just innocent brushes of baby skin and chubby hands.
cartography for beginners
They spend a few years with their quiet affection. Nothing but hands held tight and kissing cheeks, just the smallest tryst, the sweetest romance; just Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher exchanging flowers, declarations of love, innocent brushes of baby skin and chubby hands. Yamamoto wears his goofy smile when they’re together. His eyes are wary. His face brightens.
Gokudera behaves no different, but he has a fresh composition hidden in his sock-drawer at home, hauntingly reminiscent of the Romantic Period, hauntingly condemning. Sometimes, he plays it when Yamamoto is lazing around his apartment, mindless and worriless and when Yamamoto asks, he looks into that cheerful, adoring face and says It’s a classic. And it is, to him, to Yamamoto. Pressed beneath Gokudera’s half-folded boxers and single socks is a masterpiece written in faded pen that blatantly ran out before the second melody was added, but that had continued to be used nonetheless. Gokudera will entitle it in future: what the fuck was I on?
It’s different for Yamamoto. There is no musicality to sport, no evocating sound, no emotional crescendo, nothing particularly telling in a plate of cold sushi, either. On his bedroom walls, photographs are scattered; Gokudera is pictured in almost every one, awkward and angry, and in the ones where he doesn’t notice the camera, he’s half-smiling and himself. Yamamoto only hides one away - neatly settled at the top of his box for baseball memorabilia. It’s them - Gokudera is looking up into the camera and smiling, just like Yamamoto had asked, looking perfectly content with Yamamoto’s arm wrapped around him, the side of Yamamoto’s forehead pressing against his. It will move homes in future; nestle itself into the front pocket of Yamamoto’s suit, then, when Gokudera unwinds, on their dresser, framed and for all eyes to see.
They kiss later than the rest of their friends, and Yamamoto’s certain it would be a horrible ordeal if it wasn’t Gokudera, because that first second of tense hands clutching shirts and pressing, sore lips is quickly out of the way, and Yamamoto leans down again because he wants so much of Gokudera he can’t fathom it, and if it bruises his mouth and breaks his heart, he could never bring himself to care because it’s him; it’s them. That second kiss flows like a scripted scene, up on tip-toes with their bodies pressed tight, one trembling, miniscule breath shared between them, and even though Yamamoto wished for it again and again, every over thought daydream, perfected fantasy can’t compare in the slightest - it’s them.
Tsuna doesn’t even know, doesn’t suspect anything to begin with. There are handful’s of kisses behind his back that Gokudera will initiate and later blame on Yamamoto, and too many for Yamamoto to count that he started, truthfully. Underneath the dining table in the Tenth’s house, in Takesushi, Yamamoto will squeeze Gokudera’s hand as tight as he can, fidget with rings and bracelets, trace along Gokudera’s pretty, narrow fingers. Gokudera will let out a soft little sigh before he squeezes back, and Nana Sawada and Tsuyoshi Yamamoto will pretend to be none the wiser.
A gradual ascent. Maybe it’s just a tad ridiculous, scandalous, maybe a thousand alpha-male mafioso in Italy would have their heads for it, but then again, it could just as easily be the most obvious, easiest thing in the world. Haru is the first of their friends to notice anything at all, intrusive and daringly bold. She picks up Yamamoto’s baseball jersey from Gokudera’s bedroom floor and that’s all there is to it; she grins wide. Silly boys, she says, and then Gokudera’ kicks her out for making his face turn a dozen varieties of red.
Bianchi announces it to the world after she barges in on them - Gokudera is teaching Yamamoto to bake, and he didn’t know what’s so particularly suggestive about it, but his sister is frighteningly eager - not to mention insightful - nonetheless. She calls their father and he sends his congratulations; she tells the Tenth and he hardly looks surprised, just vaguely dizzy. “Love,” she sighs grinning. Yamamoto is holding Gokudera back and rubbing his shoulders to keep him from leaping at her. “There’s love in your eyes, Hayato. I’m so proud.”
Yamamoto laughs and Gokudera kicks them both out before she can say a word more.
“Is that,” Yamamoto starts, lying with his back to Gokudera’s heavily locked door, smiling lazily, “so bad?” The thing is, Yamamoto’s so accustom to the feeling that he forgets what it means, surrounded by a wave of relations on every Namimori corner, a park full of cheering fans and a second family that think the world of him, always have. Gokudera is just - different. He has it; an apologetic father awaiting him somewhere home, a loving sister, the boss, the family, but it’s still so new. He’ll wake up some morning’s and Ryohei will be in his kitchen making a fry-up in preparation for an extreme morning jog, or Shamal will drop by some souvenirs from his trips to Italy and tidy his apartment a little, or Haru will be sitting on the other side of his bed, making him playlists on iTunes.
Most of the time, Yamamoto’s snuck in after practice and sits on his couch, fiddling with his PSP. He’ll shoot some blinding smile at Gokudera’s sleepy form, and he’ll say something stupid like, aha, I’m really bad at this; how did you get this far?; you look so cute in the mornings.
“Well?” Yamamoto asks, a grin audible in his voice, and Gokudera wordlessly reopens the door, wordlessly takes Yamamoto’s hand and pulls him back in. “Haha,” the idiot starts, looking painfully pleased with himself, drawing Gokudera up against him and nuzzling his face into white hair. “Don’t worry. I think I do, too.”
And Gokudera just smiles.
-
THE THINGS THESE BOYS DO TO ME.