(no subject)
Title: Made to be Broken
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Rating: PG-13ish
Warnings: None really, just boys being boys.
Notes: Thanks to myrafur for the last minute beta and awesomeness. Merry christmas octavius_x, I hope this fulfills some of your christmas wishes :)!
Tsuna was the one who imposed the first rule.
He had thought of it at the airport, the sleeves of his summer shirt rolled up, and his hair sort of sticking to his flushed forehead with sweat.
"Promise you won't fight while I'm gone," he said, wringing his pale hands. He had left his ticket on the back seat of the car, then at check in, and then on the seats of the lounge. Gokudera had been careful to keep picking it up.
"We don't fight!" Yamamoto said, just as Gokudera responded, "Of course, Tenth!" That had made them turn to each other; another uneasy moment of synchronicity.
Of course, the truth was that they fought all the time. Picking fights with Yamamoto, Gokudera had found, helped to diffuse the constantly mounting frustration that came hand in hand with being near him. Yamamoto wasn't easy to rile up, but he enjoyed a good scuffle, and perhaps there was an element of competition there, too: something that made the fighting almost fun.
Not that Gokudera really considered Yamamoto a rival. That would be embarrassing.
"Please, I need you guys to keep things okay while I'm gone," Tsuna said, flinching as the loudspeaker announced his flight, again. "Just try and keep the peace for six weeks. That's fine, right?"
He looked painfully relieved when they both nodded.
---
It very quickly became a hard rule to follow.
With Tsuna in Milan, Gokudera found himself sharing a lot of responsibilities with Yamamoto. It was hot in Namimori - none of the bare heat of Italy in the summer, thicker and more brooding, and the weather frustrated Gokudera almost as much as Yamamoto did.
"Hah, you're seriously going to blow them up?" Yamamoto seemed to think badmouthing the Tenth wasn't something worth punishment. "Seems a bit excessive, right?"
Gokudera grunted, just keeping his eyes down, working on the block of C4 instead. It was only a small one, enough to leave a nice hole in the local Yakuza hideout, maybe give them some friendly 3rd degree burns to remind them to be respectful. His hands were careful on the wiring; his eyes steadily cast down. He didn't want to look at Yamamoto, because Yamamoto had taken to wearing loose vests in the heat; his bared skin already bronzing from the sun.
There was something strangely obscene about seeing so much of him; the corded muscles in his arms and the sharp cut of his collarbone, flush and glazed with sweat. Gokudera's concession to the heat this summer was to roll up his sleeves.
"We could just go and rough them up a bit," Yamamoto suggested, crouching closer to where Gokudera was working. He made it hotter, just by sitting there and opening his fat mouth. "No one needs to die."
Gokudera scowled.
"I'm not going to fucking kill them," he snapped. "And could you not sit so close? Jesus. Just keep out of my way, this summer, and I might not kill you."
And that was rule number two.
---
The second rule, apparently, had been up for interpretation, because Yamamoto decided not to keep out of Gokudera's business, but, instead, simply keep a few yards between them, at any given time. Gokudera kind of wanted to point out how moronic that was, but, it was hot, and the temperature sucked all the fight out of him, and made him lethargic.
The worst thing was, Yamamoto actually thought it made everything better, like, all the problems in their relationship had been solved by a little more physical space. He hovered behind Gokudera like a ghost, which made Gokudera realize exactly how close Yamamoto used to stand. It was strange not to have him pressed against his shoulder.
"Ahhh, it's hot," Yamamoto said, like the oppressive heat was something lovely; worth savouring. He approached a lot of things with that tone, and it really pissed Gokudera off. Was there anything that annoyed Yamamoto, or was it simply that he, himself, was so obnoxious, that even muggy weather was tolerable by comparison?
They stood in a line for popsicles, no real duties to do, just a constant sort of patrol, checking in with the family members scattered across town. Stops like that, for ice-cream, or fresh watermelon, were always Yamamoto's idea, and, for the sake of respecting Tsuna's first rule, Gokudera usually just let it happen.
"Oh I forgot!" Yamamoto rummaged in his pockets, juggling the ice, clumsily. Gokudera snatched it from him before it could fall. "I have a message to give to Ryohei, but I can't - I have training this evening."
"I'll take it," Gokudera said, trying to convey through his tone, alone, how little he really wanted to. Yamamoto, of course, didn't notice, just handed it over in exchange for his ice. Still sitting at his careful distance, Gokudera found himself watching how Yamamoto's arms bracketed that space; his quick fingers a warm, and brief point of contact.
Yamamoto was all about that single contact - the smack of a bat hitting a ball; the thrust of a directed blade. His mouth was stained red with cherry, like he wasn't nearly twenty; wasn't a deadly swordsman, or part of the mafia, at all. Gokudera wondered if he would ever fucking grow up.
"Hey, thanks Hayato," Yamamoto said, slurping on his popsicle. Gokudera flinched; his whole body making a sort of involuntary movement towards Yamamoto, as if his first name was a thread twisted between them, and Yamamoto had given it a good, hard tug.
"Don't call me that," Gokudera said quickly, watching Yamamoto pull his vest away from his bare chest, unconcerned. Yamamoto just nodded, not much bothered by Gokudera's reaction...
And that was how they came about rule number three.
---
Gokudera hated baseball; seriously hated it. He had never been much of a sports fan, but baseball really ticked him off, especially. It was needlessly complicated, for one; Japanese people loved it, too - which was hardly a ringing endorsement. Most of all, it seemed to represent Yamamoto: the carefree philosophy of a ball game; floodlights on the diamond, bright like his constant, useless grin.
Gokudera kept his distance from Yamamoto's training and games, that summer, but it was hard to avoid. Every spare moment Yamamoto had, he was playing ball, like he never got sick of standing in front of a pitching machine, and smacking home run, after home run, into the net.
It was too hot to have so much energy, Gokudera thought. It was the middle of the day, and Yamamoto was practicing his batting, again; a juicebox straw clamped between his teeth, as he took swing, after swing. The place was empty - anyone with half a brain was at home sitting in front of the air conditioning unit.
Yamamoto hadn't had a brain to start with, and Gokudera was certain his was slowly rotting due to so much prolonged contact. Tsuna had only been gone two weeks, and, by the time he got back, Gokudera would be on a life support unit, rendered a vegetable by fatal exposure to Yamamoto Takeshi.
"Don't you play enough fucking baseball?" Gokudera asked, keeping well back from where Yamamoto was swinging.
"Haha, hi!" Yamamoto looked like he hadn't noticed Gokudera standing there watching him for the majority of half an hour. His sweaty hair was sticking to his forehead, he dropped the bat and scratched at his chest, nothing about him elegant at all. "What are you doing here?"
What Gokudera was doing was being entirely foolish. He had been given the gift of a Yamamoto-free day, the first in about a fortnight, and instead of using the time for something worthwhile, he had found himself wandering aimlessly, right to where he didn't want to be. (He didn't say that, of course).
"I just wondered if you had spoken to the boss." Gokudera had - of course. The Tenth called him at the end of every week for an update; a fact he was quite proud of. He was nearly 100% certain that Yamamoto did not get the same privilege, which was, of course, why he asked.
"Mmm, nah, I figured he'd let you know how things were going," Yamamoto shrugged his shoulders fluidly. He was really getting pretty tan, which Gokudera found revolting. "Want a shot?"
He lifted the bat, and something very foolish inside Gokudera burst out and said, "Okay," before he had any chance to think. For a moment he just stood there, frozen in horror at what he had agreed to do. Then, unwilling to lose face, he stepped into the batting cage.
"Stand here," Yamamoto shifted out of the way, trying to keep their circle of predetermined personal space intact, in the small enclosure. He wasn't entirely successful: Gokudera could smell him; sweat, and something sweet on his breath, probably from the juiceboxes crumpled on the floor behind him.
The bat was actually heavier than Gokudera had imagined. It was wooden, and not at all like the stylish aluminium ones Yamamoto used when he was playing a real game. It strained his wrists a little to hold it up.
"Just move like- hah, and then, when it's coming, let yourself sort of sink, and then go whack!" Yamamoto said, unhelpfully, as he moved out of the way.
Gokudera missed the first ball altogether, it sailed past him without him even shifting an inch. He couldn't imagine how anyone could hit something moving so fast. The second time he swung, but hit nothing; the bat flailing purposelessly through the air.
"Fuck," Gokudera said, red in the face.
"Wait wait," Yamamoto moved closer, carefully, like he was circling a dangerous animal. He got close enough to touch Gokudera, back into the forbidden zone, and reached out to adjust his stance. "Wider here," he said, nudging Gokudera's foot with his own. "And crouch like-" he was too close, Gokudera thought, helplessly.
"There," Yamamoto said, bringing his arms up alongside Gokudera's miming the graceful sweep of the bat. "Go go, try it now."
Gokudera wasn't ready for Yamamoto to move away, but, when the next ball came, he thought about how Yamamoto had moved and just closed his eyes and did that. The force of ball against bat was such a shock he dropped the bat - both it and the ball rolling away.
"Hah!" Yamamoto burst into laughter, and he just wouldn't stop. Something about that, and how comfortable he looked, -lounging there against the side of the cage,- it really sparked anger inside Gokudera. He stepped away, towards the exit, gritting his teeth.
"Listen-" he hissed, suddenly unbearably hot in his black shirt. "Don't fucking laugh at me!"
Yamamoto immediately stopped, his face taking on a strange frozen quality. It wasn't something Gokudera had seen before, but he was beyond caring, halfway out the door, already.
That was rule number four.
---
Yamamoto actually took the fourth rule pretty seriously, avoiding Gokudera for all of two days, after the exchange at the batting cage, and after that acting far more careful around him, watching his step. Gokudera would have been grateful, but having Yamamoto walk on eggshells around him actually pissed him off, even more.
Mrs. Sawada seemed lonely without Tsuna to keep her company, so they visited her; the kids playing hide and seek in the back garden, between lines of laundry. Gokudera spent his time painting his nails and smoking, but Yamamoto found the hose, and took to turning it on Lambo whenever he got near. Gokudera could have done without the shrieking, but it wasn't a completely horrible way to spend an afternoon.
"Ahahaha! I've got the hose now, take that!" it should have been enough of a warning, but by the time Gokudera thought to move he was soaked through; hair and shirt completely drenched.
"Oh, you shitty little cow-" lunging for Lambo, but the brat was fast, leaping out of reach and soaking Gokudera, again, in the process. Over by the house, Mrs. Sawada was cheering him on, and Gokudera spat out his ruined cigarette, ready to let this get really nasty.
"No need to bomb him to death," Yamamoto shouted, grinning. He was- god he was soaked, too: stripped to the waist; the water running down the planes of his bare chest. "Let's get revenge!"
The idea of working with Yamamoto while he was gleaming like that, obscenely naked and wet - it made something tighten up in Gokudera's throat. He could feel his face flaring up, and he was pretty sure he couldn't get any closer without spontaneously combusting.
"Gokudera?" Yamamoto asked, eyes wide, careful not to break rule number three. For some reason, the obvious effort he was making to not be a total idiot only made Gokudera feel worse.
"Lambo returns- no mercy!" the cow brat was back, this time with the hose on full, right in Gokudera's face. It didn't matter at all how shiny, wet, or naked Yamamoto looked- Gokudera wasn't going to let that lie.
"Fucking cow!"
The fight lasted until Lambo was exhausted, and Gokudera was drenched right through by then. It had eked the anger out of him, though, running around in the sun like a little kid, and it felt as if something dark and knotted inside him had unravelled.
Mrs Sawada coaxed Lambo in, while she made dinner, and Gokudera lay down in the grass, letting the waning sun dry him. Yamamoto was close, probably too close, but it wasn't too bad, really, lying there beside him.
"It's been a good summer," Yamamoto said, like it was over already. Tsuna came back in a week and Gokudera had barely noticed time passing so quickly. "Don't you think?"
"Mm," Gokudera couldn't commit either way. His summer had been frustrating, confusing, but at the same time, he could hardly describe it as bad. Yamamoto, as usual, took his lack of answer as an assent.
"Hey-" Yamamoto rolled over, propping himself on one elbow, "hey, don't be mad."
Gokudera had no idea what he meant, but he recognised the tone in Yamamoto's voice. This was another rule. When he looked over, Yamamoto was very, very close. His hair was still wet, sticking in every direction, water tracing lines down to his jaw, and there was mud beside his nose from where he had wrestled Lambo.
For the first time, Gokudera found himself completely struck dumb by Yamamoto, unable to think of something sharp to say that might send him away. There was just so much of him; the volume of his humanity startled Gokudera. In the face of that, the rules all seemed kind of stupid.
"Okay," he said, his voice low. Yamamoto kissed him.
Gokudera kissed back more out of surprise than anything else, hands clutching at the grass beneath him. Something was surging up inside him, making him feel light-headed, coiling hot in the pit of his stomach. He could hear the tiny noises in Yamamoto's throat, feel the heat of his naked skin, close enough for Gokudera to reach out and touch. Gokudera couldn't do it, though - he was locked in place by the gentle press of Yamamoto's lips.
When Yamamoto pulled back, Gokudera shivered, surprised at how disappointing he found the sudden space between them. He managed to uncurl his fingers, and raised his hands uncertainly.
Yamamoto didn't look expectant; he didn't look defensive; he just stared down, looking as calm as Gokudera didn't feel. It was like he had infected Gokudera with a fever that made his heart hammer in his chest, made all his blood rush.
"You-" Gokudera said, then just gave up; no hope of ever continuing. Eventually, Yamamoto kissed him again.
Gokudera didn't even have to try to follow rule number five.
---
After that, all the rules were out of the window. In that last week, they fought at least ten times, and Gokudera managed to burn one of his own eyebrows off. Yamamoto wouldn't stop laughing at that, but later, when it was cooler in the quiet dark of his bedroom, he kissed the line of Gokudera's brow, made him forget about the indignity of it with slick, searching fingers, and a wet mouth.
Yamamoto refused to stand further than the length of a forearm away, and later, much later, when they were pressed close together he groaned, "Hayato, yes," making every syllable something throaty, and obscene.
Gokudera was mad the whole time, strung up by his own feelings, and left out to dry. Loving Yamamoto was even more frustrating than spending time with him. Gokudera would have been miserable, too, if it weren't for how helplessly happy it all made him.
"I'm glad everything went well," Tsuna said as they waited for his luggage on the conveyer. He was sunburned; freckles scattered across his nose, and Gokudera thought he seemed happy.
"Did you have a good summer?" Yamamoto asked, reaching for the suitcase as it arrived, hefting it up on one broad shoulder. He didn't seem to realise what a spectacle he was making with such a casual show of strength, but for once, Gokudera decided not to point it out. It was pleasantly air-conditioned in the arrivals lounge, which had put him in a generous mood.
"Well," Tsuna said, "I'd rather have been here, to be honest."
"I wish you had been here, Tenth!" Gokudera snatched the suitcase from Yamamoto, dusting it down, as if Yamamoto might have dirtied it somehow. He probably had. They made their way to the entrance, weaving in between families and businessmen, people coming home, people just about to leave.
"I got Gokudera to try baseball," Yamamoto said out of the blue, and no amount of air-conditioning could let that one slip by. Gokudera tossed his cigarette in the nearest plant pot and set about trying to rearrange Yamamoto's face with the suitcase.
"Hey - I told you not to fight!" Tsuna said, hopelessly. He might as well have not bothered, as neither of them were listening at all.