Reborn fic: "Home (Is Where the Heart Is)" Part III
Lol, I still can't believe I wrote something too large to put in one post.
Home (Is Where the Heart Is)
Part 3. Back to Black
The city had definitely hit a cold spell, he reflected as he climbed out of the taxi. He tipped the driver and struggled up the steps in his long winter coat, the black wool fluttering around him like the wings of some big black predator. Briefly he took a moment to look at the stars peeking through the disintegrating clouds, high above the silhouetted skyline, and took comfort in the untouchable chilly feel of their light.
Inside it was quiet, unnaturally so. Though it was late, he expected someone to be up - Chrome maybe, or Xanxus staying over another night in order to attack the 10th's pile of paperwork early tomorrow morning. But as it was, he saw nobody on the way up except for the freckle-faced doorman, who took his coat and scarf with too low of a bow to see his face with. In the hallways, the eerie silence stretched down the well-trodden carpets, lined with curls of golden vine. He could smell it in the air: something was wrong, something was off. And the closer he got to the office, the more tense he became.
It had been Tuesday when he left. Now it was early Friday morning, and he had checked his phone just thirty seconds ago. He trusted his instincts after discovering they tended to be right; so what was mkaing his hair stand on end?
He opened the door carefully, frowning into the darkness. Maybe he expected there would still be someone awake to greet him - Yamamoto perhaps, with a cup of tea ready on the counter for him as he read over daily Mafia Times for the third time - but it was three in the morning, of course everybody would be asleep, even the office's two resident worknuts (Xanxus and Tsuna). Still, he crept into the adjoining room where a couple more desks were tucked into corners, some purposefully facing away from certain others. Various levels of untidiness mired each one; despite Gokudera's best efforts and meticulous nature, his desk always looked the worst after four days absence. Clicking the light on silently, he scowled his way over to his workplace. It wasn't as bad as it could be, really - there was a nice stack of documents in the outbox already for tomorrow's early collection, all signed "Gokudera Hayato" in Yamamoto's messy hand. He checked through them; it was just the regular stuff that needed approval, like kitchen materials and basic ammunitions. Nothing out of place here.
Except for the black envelope that poked out from underneath one stack. Gokudera frowned at it, recognition and vague despair setting in. Black was only used for two things - hit folders and death folders, and looking at the time of month, it was probably time for the latter. The Millefiore made those come like clockwork, every discouraging one-and-a-half weeks, each a tidy sum of twenty or so family members.
He was in no mood to read them. Right now he was tired, he wanted a cigarette but had to get away from his currently-flammable cubicle, and find a nice place to relax for a couple of hours before he had to get up again. Gathering some of the other documents to review after a nice shower, he turned back towards the door to exit -
- and almost jumped out of his skin to see Tsuna there, clad only in a nightgown and an utterly serious look.
They stared at each other for a long moment, Gokudera trying to get his heartbeat back under control and Tsuna looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here right now. Finally the 10th Vongola boss murmured with a hint of real relief under all that stiffness, "You're back."
The Storm Guardian smiled weakly, taking in his boss' hollow eyes and slumped, defeated shoulders. He'd been right-hand man for long enough to know when he was about to hear the punch line of the (usually) morbid joke. "In one piece, 10th."
Brown eyes flickered to the black folder under all the other documents, and lingered there. "You read it yet?," came the next question.
"Not yet." He tried not to sound indignant and confused, but it came out like that anyway.
Another long moment passed. Tsuna didn't budge except to bore a hole through the paper with his eyes, and Gokudera didn't react except to follow his boss' gaze slowly to where the black envelope peeked out from all the rest of the work, starkly harmonized with his own suit and tie. Finally, at a nod from Tsuna, he set down the rest of the papers and untied the cord at the top.
"Did everyone else already get it?," he asked in passing.
"Everyone," and was that something flickering, mournful, haunting that passed through Tsuna's eyes?
It was then that Gokudera knew it was bad. It felt like the time he and Yamamoto were caught by the Calcassa Family and his partner had barely moved fast enough to catch the bullet two inches right of his heart. His spirits sank as he read through the names - good people, women and men alike, some who wielded firearms and rings but most who didn't, simply related to the wrong people or unaware of the full set of circumstances they were involved in. The family members were marked in yellow, people higher than a capistrano marked in pink, and then the unfortunate unrelated in green. He checked the pinks first, confused to see no one he was really close to there, and then checked the greens next.
And finally there, at the end of the list under the Y's, read Yamamoto Takanosuke (59). Namimori, Japan.
First came the click of the last puzzle piece falling into place - that was why there was no one out, it was probably because there was no one here save for the 10th and a skeleton crew to run headquarters, everyone else had probably already been assigned to guard similar people in the family. It was a shock, after all - of all the places they thought they had under control, Namimori would have been the top of that list, what with Hibari flying back and forth like some overactive news-pigeon. But this time their security had fallen through, no matter how it happened - bribery, or overwhelming force - and it didn't help that failure was here now, laughing hysterically in his face as the memories surfaced like jellyfish, nebulous and yet clear enough to see the irreplacable contents inside.
He had grown up in that town, he realized with a start. He'd eaten there, graduated there, found his niche there. He'd proved himself a man, he'd developed some of his best weapons in his dingy studio, he'd fallen asleep with his head on his future boss' shoulder there. If there had been no Namimori, there would not have been Gokudera Hayato, Vongola boss' right-hand man.
He realized abruptly that the paper in front of him was now swimming with tears, impossible to read, and he rubbed his eyes harshly with his sleeve. "The shop?," he asked, but it came out more like a croak.
"Gone. Burned." He couldn't meet the 10th's face when he said that, so he had no idea of knowing what kind of expression he was making. But the bomber knew what kind of face he was making - maybe something hybrid between lost and despair.
And what about his Yamamoto?
As if hearing his unheard question, the 10th Vongola boss shook his head sadly. He never looked more like a child than when he did that, with the vulnerable quiver of his chin and his pressed lips. Brown eyes stared out in desolation; he thought for a moment that this might be the final straw to push Tsuna to the brink, to convince him to back out of this dangerous game. But slowly as he watched, his boss' head came up with a hint of resolve flint-sharp in his eyes, and it occured to Gokudera like so many other times, just why he followed this man.
Will you go to him?, came the unsaid words.
Gokudera needed no second prompting, and hurried out of the room.
As he pounded down the familar hallways to the private bedrooms in the opposite wing, his mind pattered fast and rough down Memory Lane: the sounds of explosions, a peal of raucous laughter. A warm kotatsu in the winter, the seeping of blood hot down his cheek. The first time he put on a suit - exactly 143600 yen. His first kiss by a certain drunken baseball idiot one night they all piled into the Takesushi for a celebration. Watching the old man's hands slice cleanly through the fish, press the nigiri, and hand the plate to him with such an infectious smile.
Just the same as me, Yamamoto wouldn't be here now if he had no father.
He turned the corner sharply, eyes picking out the farthest door without thought. He almost stumbled towards it, his heart was beating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat with nervousness, he wondered what was beyond that wooden barrier - a partner brokenhearted beyond recognition, packing his bags mutely with haunted eyes? Was he holding a bottle or a razor in his hands? He wanted to hit himself he felt so stupid, after all it was him who showed the swordsman that movie where the man slit his wrists in the bathtub and died for the sake of keeping his Famiglia's secrets. Desperately he tried to think of some time he and Yamamoto made a promise not to die, and almost cried in denial when there was nothing there, except for the soft gleam of golden eyes against the dust and blood of that ramshackle warehouse
"I'm still here, Gokudera. I won't leave you alone, Gokudera."
He caught himself before he cracked his hand in half against the door with all of his knocking. For all he knew, Yamamoto - his partner? for how much longer? - could be asleep, or in the shower, or any number of things. But he had a hunch that the swordsman wasn't in bed or neck deep in a bottle or working off his hysteria with the edge of his sword; he didn't know why it was, but he could almost see it, the darkness of the room that was as familiar as his own dynamite, and the outline of Yamamoto's profile against the window lit only by moonlight.
His voice came out a croak the first time, but by the second try he'd calmed down a little though his heart was still located too high for comfort. "Yamamoto?," he called, again furiously trying to remember the last time he called the other by his name, and coming up with nothing. "Would you - we need to talk."
Silence from within. He imagined Yamamoto's eyes cracking open in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening at his voice through the door. He bit back a scream when the seconds ticked on; his mind chased its own tail in endless circles as he waited, asking things like Where the hell is he? and Why do I even care?. The answers were all there, really, waiting for him to pluck them out of the air - he just wasn't sure yet, what he was going to do with those answers, because Yamamoto was always the surprise, Yamamoto was always the goddamn exception under his skin.
He had never been able to stop watching the other once he figured out there really was something there, something he wanted to see more of. That indominable will, maybe, or that unstoppable strength. And that it was all aimed towards him was both flattering as it was frightening, especially because now he couldn't take his eyes away.
And then he was furiously crossing out all his sickening romantic thoughts out of his head, because the door in front of him opened halfway, and Yamamoto poked his head out. Gokudera took in the other's wild, side-stilted hair, those blinking gold eyes and the shirt with the top four buttons undone, and somehow couldn't relax even in the face of the other's very normal appearance. Sure, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his complexion was a little on the sallow side, but in general this was the way Yamamoto always looked off work, half-messy and always casual.
He pinpointed it in the next second, though - it was something in the bunched set of shoulders that screamed defensiveness when Yamamoto was always offensive, always moving forward. Or maybe it was the way the door was held open just enough so Gokudera could see the tip of the coffee table behind one long leg, but nothing else, whereas he usually didn't have to wait to be ushered in with a wistful smile. Then again, the most strange part of it all was the flicker of something smouldering behind those eyes that looked so dead a moment before. That was the most chilling; the look Yamamoto was giving him was reminiscent of the time they chased after the man that stabbed the 10th, right before the stupid swordsman got himself shot.
That weird light was still there as the other prompted, "Gokudera?" The tone sounded so falsely concerned, Gokudera felt like shaking the other man to ask him why only an echo remained of the Rain Guardian.
"The 10th was worried," he said instead.
Interest jumped in Yamamoto's body language before simmering down again. Even calm and in the middle of a crises, he still couldn't stay still - he fiddled with the doorknob, with his shirt hem, scuffed his bare feet together, maybe nervous or maybe tightly controlled under all that fidgeting. As Gokudera watched, he looked down at the carpet before shutting his eyes briefly and answering, "Tell I'm sorry, and indisposed." And then to the bomber's dismay, he began to shut the door.
In the classic manner of some television drama, the Storm Guardian shoved his shoe into the crack between door and doorframe right before it closed. Yamamoto's eyes flickered from the shoe them to his face, staring steadily at him. The expression was mute, telling Gokudera nothing; it wouldn't be the first time he saw it, but it never failed to throw him off-kilter. For all his unwilling admiration, the swordsman was usually nothing but accomodating to Gokudera's daily activities. He certainly had patience that the bomber lacked in spades, considering it had been years since that clumsy kiss in a now-nonexistent sushi shop.
"Hibari," came the first thing to his mind, and this time the reaction was much more dynamic than anything he'd prompted before: Yamamoto visibly started, something like the beginnings of a glare forming around his lips and eyes, shoulders stiff as if he were about to run. Gokudera continued gamely, "The reason he came was because...he told you later that day, didn't he?"
"Yes," came the grunted answer, and he couldn't remember the last time Yamamoto looked like that, like a dark house with nobody inside. Maybe the flesh was still there, maybe the heart was still beating - but there was no sensation in those limbs, just like there ceased to be any meaning in the job he did or the role he played in this fucked-up merry-go-round of life.
But he had a point, he really did. There was a reason the 10th sent him here; it was because he was the one closest to breaking into those walls and poking around a bit without damaging much. Seeing his social track record, though, Gokudera also reflected wryly that maybe Yamamoto had fallen in love with the wrong person - his weapon was dynamite, after all. He tended to blow things up rather than smooth them over.
They were partners, though, and that meant more than any words could tell that Yamamoto had put up with him more than months, more than years. He took a deep breath, pulling out that foggy whatever you call it feelings from the back of his mind where it'd been lurking all these years, waiting for a day to come when they could take that step forward. Now he knew what the last missing component had been: Yamamoto had always been the one supporting Gokudera, and never the other way around.
It's simple after all, Gokudera thought to himself.
The pain in his foot brought him back to the present. Pushing the door open with his hand, he met the other's eyes squarely and began, "I asked Hibari about the house. Building a new one, I mean."
Nonplussed at the sudden change in subject, the swordsman's grip on the door momentarily loosened. Gokudera didn't rush in, though - this had to be done with trust, because that was really what it was all about in the end, wasn't it? Whether or not he trusted Yamamoto with something he'd never trusted with anybody in this world.
And the answer was shocking even after all this time: yes. He never felt safer than when he was with the swordsman.
"The house...," he began, and stumbled over the words. The truth burned in his throat, knocking against his tongue to break out and fly. "The house, it...it's not the same. I mean," he fought for the right phrase that might let him step inside like he used to.
"You are home," he finished finally in one breath, and despite the corny-ness of the statement, his face told the swordsman that he damned well meant it.
-------------
Yamamoto stared at the other for a long, tight-lipped moment before he inched the door open subtly and moved aside to let the other Guardian pass. He watched as his partner eased inside, taking up as little space as possible in the corner between the desk and the door. When Gokudera had come huffing and puffing up to his door five minutes ago, he wasn't sure what to say or expect, but it certainly was the quiet declaration he'd been waiting years for.
Now, the other was staring up at him with a mixture of relief and anxiety warring on his face, and he had no idea where to begin. That was the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't tell where his life ended and started right now, much less figure out what the hell the bomber was doing here at three in the morning. He knew, of course, that Gokudera was scheduled to return around this time from Singapore - but he hadn't expected a personal visit. Yamamoto wasn't at his best, he expected that little piece of news to be worldwide by now, but he could deal, he really could. Alone.
He'd spent the last few days in more than a daze, he knew that. Yet for all its suddenness, he hadn't really felt the loss until he looked up at the room he'd spent the last five years of his life living out of. His father had been here once, after all, just once, and that one time had been to tell Takeshi face-to-face that if he followed this path, he would have to find another place to stay if he ever visited Namimori.
Why?, he had asked, but knew the answer. His father had been young once too, and he had no idea if anyone else had seen it, but Sawada Iemitsu always gave that queer apologetic look whenever he looked at Yamamoto the younger. Something had happened there - so similar he could almost taste it, except Tsuna had succeeded where his father had failed - but when his father had stormed out of the mansion all those years ago, he'd lost the chance to ask.
His father had told him once, when he was younger, though: Your mother's not really buried here. His old man's face had been smiling grimly, but there had been something ugly and scarred under those words, patched over instead of healed. He hadn't understood the real meaning then, ringing true among the gravestones.
Ancient history. He might have laughed sarcastically at himself, if he were the type. As it was, there was clearly a black hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, because everything he thought about and everything he should be feeling was being sucked into that merciless void.
Still, despite his suspicions about his father, he owed Gokudera a response. "You caught me at a bad time."
"Sorry," the bomber answered, characteristically looking anything but.
He turned his back on the bomber so he couldn't see his face, and gripped the end of the tabletop so hard it creaked. Really, it was quite simple what he wanted, when it came down to it: he wanted Gokudera, he wanted to become a better swordsman, he wanted to protect his family and he wanted his father to acknowledge him again. Such a simple little list. He'd never had to strike anything off of it before, but here he was doing it. Mentally he crossed it out in red, grinning hysterically as he did it. His mind spun; what was he doing here? Why didn't he just stay home and take over the shop like a good little boy?
"Are you alright?," the other Guardian asked after it became clear he wasn't going to say anything.
He dug moodily into his current conversational topics, and came up with, "Did you know my father was going to die?"
The question, which at first hung warm between them, froze as Gokudera's understanding caught up with him. Through the reflection in the window, he calmly surveyed the other's reaction: disbelief and then horror, and then finally guilt. He waited for the other to gather his thoughts, aware of the inner conflict the other was facing but unable to care, not with that endless abyss punched in his chest eating up everything he cared about. From somewhere he managed to dreg up some weary illusion of anger, aimed at both the Millefiore and the man standing in front of him.
You'd better prove yourself my partner this time, or it's over. He almost laughed at the painful little beat his tortured heart gave then.
But Gokudera's face was clear and honest as a child's as he answered, "No. I didn't." Yamamoto gave him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion, but the bomber's face remained straight almost to the point of defiance. The Rain Guardian almost gave himself up to fury then, because it didn't make sense. If the right-hand man and self-proclaimed information center of the family didn't know about the enemy closing in on his father, then who was to blame? Because this festering, writhing guilt had to be pinned to someone, or else he might just explode.
He did laugh this time. Only Gokudera could make him go from dead to enraged in the space of three seconds.
"No?," he echoed, mockingly. The bomber seemed taken aback; Yamamoto only spoke in that tone during interrogations, and never towards him. "Then why is the shop gone, and why wasn't there more security in that area?" He paced past the other Guardian, face etched in a snarling mask as his brain once again ran over the facts Hibari had told him and came up with nothing. "Tell me, partner," he was on the verge of sneering, "why is it my father who's dead?"
"We're all being targeted," the bomber snapped back, voice somewhat softened in sympathy. "Everyone who's remotely related to us is on a hit list somewhere - if you don't believe me, go ask the Mafia Times, they come out with that Most Wanted column every week." Frustrated, Gokudera ran a hand through his hair, letting the silver strands spill back rakishly into his face. If this is an act, it's a pretty damn good one, Yamamoto thought harshly.
The bomber blew a sigh like a curse, and continued, "This time - it just happened to be Yamamoto-san."
"Just happened to be my father." Yamamoto dumbly repeated it, because he couldn't believe anyone, especially Gokudera, would be stupid enough to say that to him right now.
To his credit, the bomber looked like he was seriously regretting his slip. "Yeah," he gulped in answer.
Not that that was going to save him now.
Yamamoto spun and slammed his heel freely into the other's chest. The Storm Guardian rallied at the last moment, arms coming up to block, but too late, too limply. He slammed into a corner of the table, then stumbled clumsily against the leg of a chair. The swordsman stalked forward, right hand absently reaching out to catch the ever-present Kintoki where it leaned against the couch. With one swift movement he drew it - Are you crazy?! Put it down!, a part of his mind screamed - and pointed it steadily at the other.
Gokudera continued to retreat, hands on the walls as if he had to ground himself to something solid to remind himself this was really happening. Abruptly Yamamoto realized he was smiling; that sick little monster that came out during assassinations had emerged, writhing like some skewered black snake in his chest. Through the haze of blinding rage - what does he mean he didn't KNOW, of course he KNEW, he's the fucking right-hand man of the Vongola boss! - a dim, distant side of him knew it was Gokudera, the same boy that used to call him baseball idiot, the one that looked at him with such pity, such hesitance.
Why was he angry? This was wrong in so many ways. But he couldn't stop his feet from moving forward, couldn't control the wrath that bubbled out of him like acid. The world or fate or God or whatever had taken a little too much this time, and now the control was whisked out of his hands, as if he were another person. Those fucking divine bastards were too far away for him to hit, but Gokudera was here now, looking the same as he always did, defying him, denying him -
- Kintoki crunched unmercifully into the doorframe as he maneuvered into the bedroom. He wasn't swinging seriously or else one of them wouldn't be standing by now, but he was angry, angrier than he'd been in a long time. It wasn't the same kind of feeling he got for enemies of the family, either - that was simple, and easy. Don't let them escape. Cut them down. Pie, really.
But he really was hurt this time, and he was starting to think about what little Gokudera had said about being a lone wolf when he was younger, because if anyone got too close, they could stab you in the back like this. They could betray you and that would wound you worse than anything physical you could ever receive. And goddammit, it did hurt and he was angry now and no, he wasn't rational, because if he were still in that state of mind he would have thrown away the sword and told Gokudera I'm sorry for not being a little more patient, but I really think you should leave now.
Except the look the other Guardian was giving him didn't seem like it was anything he could throw at him could shake him from whatever impossible mission he'd placed upon himself. Yamamoto tested it, just to be sure. With a movement large enough to dodge, he stabbed the sword forward, missing the killing blow by a couple of centimeters. Gokudera froze, feeling the sharp edge of the blade bite gently into his neck, but despite the fear in his eyes, there was also determination, to - what? Apologize?
It's too late for that, he snarled in his mind. Whether it's him or Tsuna apologizing, I just can't - won't - hear it right now.
Despite that, though, he didn't want to move forward. The anger in him sizzled and spat, but even as he felt like blundering through everything standing in his way, he was still part of this family despite any losses he'd incurred. Or maybe because of the losses he'd incurred - everyone seemed to walk around with some chip in their shoulder, and now he could join in the fun. He'd lost enough now, hadn't he? To join the Losers-At-Life table during poker night?
His attention whipped back to the bomber when he took a shaky step forward, and then another. Yamamoto could feel his partner's anxiety vibrating through the blade. He looked away; the trust and honesty, something he'd longed to see for so long on the other Guardian's face, was too naked for him to bear. Why now?, he hissed in his mind. Why now when it's too late, and I'm already broken?
"What do you want?," he heard himself spit out, a tad embarrassed he hadn't figured it out already. Wasn't it him who always claimed to know what his partner was thinking?
Gokudera gripped his sword-hand and firmly lowered it so it pointed to the floor. They were standing so close that Yamamoto could smell the cologne the other wore, something low and mixed with the biting scent of dynamite. Once he would have retreated, leery of anything that might piss off the other Guardian or try whatever foolish patience he had. But now, he simply didn't care, he wasn't feeling anything anymore but a deep, soul-sucking tiredness now that all of his anger had been tossed into the void too.
Maybe this was where he was supposed to laugh and tell Gokudera, I get it, alright. Won't bother you anymore. Just close the door quietly behind you, alright? But words in themselves hurt too much right now to say, much less whisper, because then his mind would just close up completely, thinking of those nights when he imagined a body beside him, a smile that came rarely, clever hands clenched around his waist...
There, he thought almost proudly through his bone-clenching fatigue, it's still there after all. My abused heart.
A touch on his face brought him back to reality. Irrationally he felt a surge of anger, looking into Gokudera's forgiving expression. There was just something about that understanding that he didn't want to accept - because in the end he could admit that it was his fault, that he wasn't looking after his father as he should have been. And with that thought, he sagged again, feeling Gokudera's hand on his shoulder, yet mind unwilling to accept whatever comfort the other was giving him.
"Today," the other Guardian managed to gulp, "today I'm here for you, Yamamoto. Today," and here Yamamoto finally could put a name to the look Gokudera was giving him, "today, I'm whatever you want me to be..."
It was the same heart-in-your-eyes look he gave Gokudera whenever he thought the other wasn't looking. Mooning, the little guy had called it, but hadn't followed it up with It's a liability, so at the time he thought it was alright. And now, on someone else's face, it was wrong. His brain, in chaos as it was, simply rejected it.
"'Be what I want'?," he echoed, faintly incredulous but more unfeeling.
"Yes." He could see the bomber's eyes searching for him, looking for some sign he was still there under all that festering emptiness, but he had to apologize. The lights were on, but nobody was home, he could feel it himself.
It was a situation he'd always imagined himself in, Gokudera in front of him, offering all of himself. Even for one night, even for three minutes, Yamamoto thought he might be happy for his entire life. But nothing could touch him now - not this foreign honesty shining out at him, not the ridiculous circumstances that brought it about - and so, in a manner befitting an mafia assassin and interrogation expert, he backhanded the other man across the face as hard as he could. The smack that sounded in the room both delighted and disgusted him.
Gokudera stumbled, hand on his cheek, eyes wide and watery. Yamamoto couldn't take his eyes off of that green, the smooth color of camellia leaves, such a bright point of color in the otherwise dark room. He dropped his sword as he shoved forward again, hands reaching for the other's collar even before his brain had fully caught up with him. "'Whatever I want'?," he repeated again, this time mockingly. His face spread into a smile; he couldn't imagine what he looked like, he was so out of it, but from the look on his partner's face, it was probably horrible. "You'd do that for me, after I killed your father last night, Ricci-bocchama?"
Sure, it was in another languge, but the meaning was clear. He watched as Gokudera's face froze in disbelief, before darkening into the familiar state of incurable temper. A mafia-born and bred, he'd thought when he saw the pictures. The young master of the family. The swordsman had to laugh now, face twisting into some hideous parody of a smile, at the anger Gokudera now displayed. Did he expect for it to go wrong, for his father to survive? Somewhere deep inside, did he regret he was joining the long line of father-killers?
Gokudera's strained voice cut off his train of thought suddenly. "I told you not to take jobs outside of the Family. Why are you still taking them?"
Yamamoto's laughter faded as he backtracked rapidly. So that wasn't it - so that conviction had been there from the beginning. Another line to draw between them - Yamamoto who still wanted his father alive, Gokudera who'd always wanted his father dead. But adding another difference to the equation didn't matter to him, not now that Yamamoto realized he was angry after all.
"I do it because it's the only thing I have left that's mine," he snarled the last word like a beast. The bomber stood firm and indignant against him. Yamamoto's irritation peaked again; he shoved the other back until he couldn't go any further. Whatever you want, his partner had promised him, but where was that promise in those shuttered eyes? "I do it because it's the only thing that's not controlled by you!"
"Well it's not my fault you gave up control in the first place now, is it?," Gokudera snapped back as well as he could. Yamamoto still had his hands fisted in the other's coat, cornering him into the section of wall between the window and the dresser; the other attempted to jerk out of his grasp, but the swordsman had him cornered him immovable by the collar. "You joined the Family on your own free will, and you said you'd deal with the consequences when they came. And they've come, dammit, don't you go piling your fucking misplaced survivor's guilt on -"
Yamamoto kissed him. There was nothing for all of five seconds, and then they were biting at each other, bruising hard enough to hurt, bodies jerking wildly against each other in some mad parody of making love. Finally they broke for air, glaring at each other as if they could pin the other down with a look alone. Something not quite sane flared like a predator's hiss in Yamamoto's eyes; it was answered at once by a snarl of challenge from Gokudera, and then their hands were ripping at clothes, popping buttons to grip skin, smooth and spreading greedily under eager fingers.
Mouths clashed again, biting to draw blood this time, and when the bomber backed away this time it stained the edge of Yamamoto's mouth. Sensing the moment however remotely, Yamamoto's hands slowed to grip the other's shoulders, looking hard into the other's face for any trace of hesitation. His fears were unfounded, though - Gokudera was shivering, but with anger and excitement. Something inside of him jumped in response, and he wasn't careful at all as he brought the bomber's face close to his again, to grind a sensitive earlobe between his teeth. Gokudera bucked into his legs in response; they could feel each other clearly in that moment, thighs pressed together like a prayer -
With all his force he tossed the other Guardian onto the bed. The bomber cracked his head noisily against the wall and winced; Yamamoto didn't give him a chance to recover before he pounced himself, tearing Gokudera's jacket and shirt aside, undressing both of them as fast he possibly could. As Gokudera recovered from where he was probably seeing still seeing stars, the swordsman yanked off the last barriers of cloth. Disbelievingly, his hand gripped skin and more pale skin, pinching and jerking until Gokudera writhed in discomfort under him. The other's face was a mask of pain and annoyance, hands latching onto Yamamoto's shoulders, bitten fingernails clenched so hard they left red crescents in his back.
Then Gokudera's head turned to the side, and he saw the bright mark his hand had left there. He couldn't help but scrape up the bomber's side with his mouth then, teeth fastened on one shoulder as he bit down. Gokudera might've yelped, he wasn't sure, but the blind struggle that followed was definitely nothing rational. Their knees tangled, Yamamoto trying to hold the other Guardian down as he angled for a nipple this time, Gokudera fighting back with all of his might. His face was torn into something not unlike what Yamamoto had seen directed towards him for most of their childhood together - hate.
But then he would catch sight of that reddened blotch on the other's cheek, and again that ghasty humor would lodge itself on his face again. He would swoop down again until Gokudera pushed his face back with one hand, pupils wide and mouth split in a vicious slash of utter abhorrence.
Somewhere in Yamamoto's mind, a voice was screaming This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Vaguely he realized Gokudera was speaking, cutting swaths through the air with curses. Hearing the narrative, he bit down in the same place again, right in the junction between neck and shoulder, and was darkly elated to hear his name there, along with enough spiteful words to flay his skin from muscle. "Yes," the bomber was saying, "you fucking bastard how could you go saying it was me I'll kill you you promised me you'd give up that name Yamamoto -"
It was that one word at the end that convinced him to flip the other on his stomach, dragging that slim set of hips towards him. Gokudera pushed up suddenly, knocking him flat on his back as the other Guardian's foot connected with his face. Yamamoto recovered quickly, dragging the other by the foot towards him and away from the drawer in the nightstand. The bed shook as they grappled, nails digging into cheeks and elbows into ribs. Somewhere along the way Yamamoto planted his foot hard into the bomber's stomach, and suddenly the resistance abated, and he reached forward -
- his hands closed on the other's pale throat, and squeezed. Gokudera flailed dizzily, choking up a storm of curses as his hands ripped down Yamamoto's arms, knees digging into the other's waist. A dull thunk! signalled the wall had been kicked, again; Gokudera's body writhed underneath as he coughed, trying to get air in his lungs but Yamamoto was too strong. Heartbeats passed; the bomber's movements became slower, more sluggish, until his hands simply rested on Yamamoto's elbows, eyes flickering sightlessly towards the other, mouth still moving as if to answer his unspoken question.
Why? Why me?
It was then the swordsman caught sight of the mark again, the mark he'd made. All at once he let go, and Gokudera's body doubled up as he hacked and fought to return air to his lungs. Gradually the white lights dancing in front of the bomber's eyes faded, until he was staring at his own knees again, panting as if he'd run a marathon. Somewhere in the vicinity, Yamamoto was rustling through the drawer, shutting it with a careless kick. Then with one motion he'd flipped Gokudera onto his stomach again, hands tight like a warning against the bomber's hip.
The Storm Guardian managed to peek over his shoulder, where Yamamoto was busy squeezing lotion onto his hand. He didn't look as absently destructive as he did before, for which he was grateful. Now he just looked studiously practical and maybe a tad distracted, but otherwise on the mend.
But then the other looked up, eyes fixed on the mark on his cheek, and Gokudera's hackles rose again, because that was the look Yamamoto gave to targets before he sliced them to pieces. One large hand shoved his face into the pillow as a finger entered him without warning. He stifled his shout of surprise into the sheets, feeling whatever anger was left being rapidly replaced by embarrassment.
No, there was anger left, because he knew the dumb lug was thinking the same as him, wherever he was in that spiky head of his. This isn't the way it's supposed to be.
He shifted to crane his neck backwards just as Yamamoto decided the bare pleasantries had been properly exchanged, and was abruptly pushed down again as the swordsman entered him in one brutal thrust. This time the Storm Guardian clenched his teeth and hands on the sheets below, coughing the next moment when the cloth left his mouth dry. Yamamoto didn't wait before moving roughly, jerking in and out with all the finesse of a drunken god. Gokudera huffed, openmouthed at the pain in his spine, before his mind caught up with whatever it'd been thinking before.
"Irony aside, why did you take that job?," he grumbled to himself.
He wasn't expecting an answer - hell, he wasn't expecting Yamamoto to even had heard - but then again, the swordsman didn't make a sound as they fucked (eerily enough). Between thrusts Gokudera peeked over his shoulder, watching as the tendons in the other Guardian's neck surfaced with strain. "I meant it when I said -," the swordsman gasped, "- when I said it was all I had of myself."
Gokudera winced as Yamamoto grabbed the already-sore spot where he'd been kicked. "You aren't just a -," he groaned suddenly, the sound filling the room, and the swordsman automatically realigned himself to push relentlessly into that spot, "- not just a killer, you're also my -"
"- partner?," Yamamoto finished. Hands squeezed Gokudera's hips until white static crinkled at the edge of his vision as the swordsman rode out his orgasm, mouth open where it panted, then finally lowered and planted a kiss right there between Gokudera's shoulderblades. He didn't last very long, the bomber thought to himself, but then again, we were fiddling around before. Rapidly he backed away from thinking about what that "fiddling" consisted of; it was just a little too far from the way he'd always imagined it, slow enough to be alcohol induced, sweet enough to be a dance.
And then rational thought left him, because Yamamoto leaned down and brought him off with three strokes and a gentle bite to the inside of his thigh. As Gokudera shuddered down from his high, his eyes focused on his partner's back facing towards him. No scars, unlike his front; despite himself the bomber felt like patting himself on the back for a job well done. This time, too, he hoped the swordsman would move past this obstacle, but at least he'd made his point clear that he'd be here, supporting Yamamoto however he needed -
- though, looking at that defeated set of shoulders, Gokudera thought it was rather too early to be celebrating.
"Hey," he murmured, and something in him scrambled in worry when his partner didn't respond, didn't even look up or act like he was startled. "You okay?"
"I hurt you." The statement came out bluntly and without preamble, but this at least was so predictable the bomber almost smiled.
He rubbed his throat ruefully as he answered, "It's nothing." And then louder, just to make it clear. "As if you could hurt me." You're forgiven.
The smile the swordsman bit back then was almost - almost - a normal response.
Silence hummed between the two of them. Idly Gokudera reached up, tracing the lines of muscle stretched over ribs that had been healed over again and again before Yamamoto spoke. "I didn't mean - I mean, I did, but it wasn't supposed to come out that way," he ended lamely. About my father, came the unsaid words.
Gokudera turned that over in his head, before asking softly, "Did you ever get the chance to apologize?"
But both knew the answer. "I'm sure he knows," the bomber continued without waiting for a reply, "Parents don't forget their children." Even that rat bastard, he added mutinously in his head. After being contacted by his own father multiple times through Bianchi, he understood that much.
Yamamoto seemed to be still deep in thought, not that Gokudera minded. He looked the other over, noting the shadows in his face, the half-slouched posture of his back, the way his toes stretched against the rug. One tanned hand looked lonely where it balanced near him, so the bomber took it in both of his. The swordsman stiffened in surprise and started to turn towards him, but then faced the wall again, face more troubled than ever.
Gradually, though, Gokudera felt the hand close back around his. I need you. And how long had Yamamoto been screaming that in his head before today?
He'd make it up, the Storm Guardian decided all at once. He'd make it up a hundred times over to the stupid lug that saw fit to stick near him all these years. Yamamoto would never know what hit him - though Gokudera was getting nervous thinking about it. He'd never taken care of anyone else, after all. Usually someone else did it for him.
Yamamoto's voice broke through his thoughts. "I have something to show you," he murmured softly. His thumb caressed the top of Gokudera's hand so shyly the bomber almost smacked him. It wasn't as if that much had changed, after all. But it was nice knowing he wasn't the only one staring into this new set of circumstances with a deer-in-headlights look on his face.
"After you move in with me," he affirmed tartly.
The split-second surprise Yamamoto showed him then was priceless. Watching the swordsman's face melt into a small, but real smile - well, that was even more so.
Yay. Finally finally finally finished.
Home (Is Where the Heart Is)
Part 3. Back to Black
The city had definitely hit a cold spell, he reflected as he climbed out of the taxi. He tipped the driver and struggled up the steps in his long winter coat, the black wool fluttering around him like the wings of some big black predator. Briefly he took a moment to look at the stars peeking through the disintegrating clouds, high above the silhouetted skyline, and took comfort in the untouchable chilly feel of their light.
Inside it was quiet, unnaturally so. Though it was late, he expected someone to be up - Chrome maybe, or Xanxus staying over another night in order to attack the 10th's pile of paperwork early tomorrow morning. But as it was, he saw nobody on the way up except for the freckle-faced doorman, who took his coat and scarf with too low of a bow to see his face with. In the hallways, the eerie silence stretched down the well-trodden carpets, lined with curls of golden vine. He could smell it in the air: something was wrong, something was off. And the closer he got to the office, the more tense he became.
It had been Tuesday when he left. Now it was early Friday morning, and he had checked his phone just thirty seconds ago. He trusted his instincts after discovering they tended to be right; so what was mkaing his hair stand on end?
He opened the door carefully, frowning into the darkness. Maybe he expected there would still be someone awake to greet him - Yamamoto perhaps, with a cup of tea ready on the counter for him as he read over daily Mafia Times for the third time - but it was three in the morning, of course everybody would be asleep, even the office's two resident worknuts (Xanxus and Tsuna). Still, he crept into the adjoining room where a couple more desks were tucked into corners, some purposefully facing away from certain others. Various levels of untidiness mired each one; despite Gokudera's best efforts and meticulous nature, his desk always looked the worst after four days absence. Clicking the light on silently, he scowled his way over to his workplace. It wasn't as bad as it could be, really - there was a nice stack of documents in the outbox already for tomorrow's early collection, all signed "Gokudera Hayato" in Yamamoto's messy hand. He checked through them; it was just the regular stuff that needed approval, like kitchen materials and basic ammunitions. Nothing out of place here.
Except for the black envelope that poked out from underneath one stack. Gokudera frowned at it, recognition and vague despair setting in. Black was only used for two things - hit folders and death folders, and looking at the time of month, it was probably time for the latter. The Millefiore made those come like clockwork, every discouraging one-and-a-half weeks, each a tidy sum of twenty or so family members.
He was in no mood to read them. Right now he was tired, he wanted a cigarette but had to get away from his currently-flammable cubicle, and find a nice place to relax for a couple of hours before he had to get up again. Gathering some of the other documents to review after a nice shower, he turned back towards the door to exit -
- and almost jumped out of his skin to see Tsuna there, clad only in a nightgown and an utterly serious look.
They stared at each other for a long moment, Gokudera trying to get his heartbeat back under control and Tsuna looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here right now. Finally the 10th Vongola boss murmured with a hint of real relief under all that stiffness, "You're back."
The Storm Guardian smiled weakly, taking in his boss' hollow eyes and slumped, defeated shoulders. He'd been right-hand man for long enough to know when he was about to hear the punch line of the (usually) morbid joke. "In one piece, 10th."
Brown eyes flickered to the black folder under all the other documents, and lingered there. "You read it yet?," came the next question.
"Not yet." He tried not to sound indignant and confused, but it came out like that anyway.
Another long moment passed. Tsuna didn't budge except to bore a hole through the paper with his eyes, and Gokudera didn't react except to follow his boss' gaze slowly to where the black envelope peeked out from all the rest of the work, starkly harmonized with his own suit and tie. Finally, at a nod from Tsuna, he set down the rest of the papers and untied the cord at the top.
"Did everyone else already get it?," he asked in passing.
"Everyone," and was that something flickering, mournful, haunting that passed through Tsuna's eyes?
It was then that Gokudera knew it was bad. It felt like the time he and Yamamoto were caught by the Calcassa Family and his partner had barely moved fast enough to catch the bullet two inches right of his heart. His spirits sank as he read through the names - good people, women and men alike, some who wielded firearms and rings but most who didn't, simply related to the wrong people or unaware of the full set of circumstances they were involved in. The family members were marked in yellow, people higher than a capistrano marked in pink, and then the unfortunate unrelated in green. He checked the pinks first, confused to see no one he was really close to there, and then checked the greens next.
And finally there, at the end of the list under the Y's, read Yamamoto Takanosuke (59). Namimori, Japan.
First came the click of the last puzzle piece falling into place - that was why there was no one out, it was probably because there was no one here save for the 10th and a skeleton crew to run headquarters, everyone else had probably already been assigned to guard similar people in the family. It was a shock, after all - of all the places they thought they had under control, Namimori would have been the top of that list, what with Hibari flying back and forth like some overactive news-pigeon. But this time their security had fallen through, no matter how it happened - bribery, or overwhelming force - and it didn't help that failure was here now, laughing hysterically in his face as the memories surfaced like jellyfish, nebulous and yet clear enough to see the irreplacable contents inside.
He had grown up in that town, he realized with a start. He'd eaten there, graduated there, found his niche there. He'd proved himself a man, he'd developed some of his best weapons in his dingy studio, he'd fallen asleep with his head on his future boss' shoulder there. If there had been no Namimori, there would not have been Gokudera Hayato, Vongola boss' right-hand man.
He realized abruptly that the paper in front of him was now swimming with tears, impossible to read, and he rubbed his eyes harshly with his sleeve. "The shop?," he asked, but it came out more like a croak.
"Gone. Burned." He couldn't meet the 10th's face when he said that, so he had no idea of knowing what kind of expression he was making. But the bomber knew what kind of face he was making - maybe something hybrid between lost and despair.
And what about his Yamamoto?
As if hearing his unheard question, the 10th Vongola boss shook his head sadly. He never looked more like a child than when he did that, with the vulnerable quiver of his chin and his pressed lips. Brown eyes stared out in desolation; he thought for a moment that this might be the final straw to push Tsuna to the brink, to convince him to back out of this dangerous game. But slowly as he watched, his boss' head came up with a hint of resolve flint-sharp in his eyes, and it occured to Gokudera like so many other times, just why he followed this man.
Will you go to him?, came the unsaid words.
Gokudera needed no second prompting, and hurried out of the room.
As he pounded down the familar hallways to the private bedrooms in the opposite wing, his mind pattered fast and rough down Memory Lane: the sounds of explosions, a peal of raucous laughter. A warm kotatsu in the winter, the seeping of blood hot down his cheek. The first time he put on a suit - exactly 143600 yen. His first kiss by a certain drunken baseball idiot one night they all piled into the Takesushi for a celebration. Watching the old man's hands slice cleanly through the fish, press the nigiri, and hand the plate to him with such an infectious smile.
Just the same as me, Yamamoto wouldn't be here now if he had no father.
He turned the corner sharply, eyes picking out the farthest door without thought. He almost stumbled towards it, his heart was beating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat with nervousness, he wondered what was beyond that wooden barrier - a partner brokenhearted beyond recognition, packing his bags mutely with haunted eyes? Was he holding a bottle or a razor in his hands? He wanted to hit himself he felt so stupid, after all it was him who showed the swordsman that movie where the man slit his wrists in the bathtub and died for the sake of keeping his Famiglia's secrets. Desperately he tried to think of some time he and Yamamoto made a promise not to die, and almost cried in denial when there was nothing there, except for the soft gleam of golden eyes against the dust and blood of that ramshackle warehouse
"I'm still here, Gokudera. I won't leave you alone, Gokudera."
He caught himself before he cracked his hand in half against the door with all of his knocking. For all he knew, Yamamoto - his partner? for how much longer? - could be asleep, or in the shower, or any number of things. But he had a hunch that the swordsman wasn't in bed or neck deep in a bottle or working off his hysteria with the edge of his sword; he didn't know why it was, but he could almost see it, the darkness of the room that was as familiar as his own dynamite, and the outline of Yamamoto's profile against the window lit only by moonlight.
His voice came out a croak the first time, but by the second try he'd calmed down a little though his heart was still located too high for comfort. "Yamamoto?," he called, again furiously trying to remember the last time he called the other by his name, and coming up with nothing. "Would you - we need to talk."
Silence from within. He imagined Yamamoto's eyes cracking open in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening at his voice through the door. He bit back a scream when the seconds ticked on; his mind chased its own tail in endless circles as he waited, asking things like Where the hell is he? and Why do I even care?. The answers were all there, really, waiting for him to pluck them out of the air - he just wasn't sure yet, what he was going to do with those answers, because Yamamoto was always the surprise, Yamamoto was always the goddamn exception under his skin.
He had never been able to stop watching the other once he figured out there really was something there, something he wanted to see more of. That indominable will, maybe, or that unstoppable strength. And that it was all aimed towards him was both flattering as it was frightening, especially because now he couldn't take his eyes away.
And then he was furiously crossing out all his sickening romantic thoughts out of his head, because the door in front of him opened halfway, and Yamamoto poked his head out. Gokudera took in the other's wild, side-stilted hair, those blinking gold eyes and the shirt with the top four buttons undone, and somehow couldn't relax even in the face of the other's very normal appearance. Sure, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his complexion was a little on the sallow side, but in general this was the way Yamamoto always looked off work, half-messy and always casual.
He pinpointed it in the next second, though - it was something in the bunched set of shoulders that screamed defensiveness when Yamamoto was always offensive, always moving forward. Or maybe it was the way the door was held open just enough so Gokudera could see the tip of the coffee table behind one long leg, but nothing else, whereas he usually didn't have to wait to be ushered in with a wistful smile. Then again, the most strange part of it all was the flicker of something smouldering behind those eyes that looked so dead a moment before. That was the most chilling; the look Yamamoto was giving him was reminiscent of the time they chased after the man that stabbed the 10th, right before the stupid swordsman got himself shot.
That weird light was still there as the other prompted, "Gokudera?" The tone sounded so falsely concerned, Gokudera felt like shaking the other man to ask him why only an echo remained of the Rain Guardian.
"The 10th was worried," he said instead.
Interest jumped in Yamamoto's body language before simmering down again. Even calm and in the middle of a crises, he still couldn't stay still - he fiddled with the doorknob, with his shirt hem, scuffed his bare feet together, maybe nervous or maybe tightly controlled under all that fidgeting. As Gokudera watched, he looked down at the carpet before shutting his eyes briefly and answering, "Tell I'm sorry, and indisposed." And then to the bomber's dismay, he began to shut the door.
In the classic manner of some television drama, the Storm Guardian shoved his shoe into the crack between door and doorframe right before it closed. Yamamoto's eyes flickered from the shoe them to his face, staring steadily at him. The expression was mute, telling Gokudera nothing; it wouldn't be the first time he saw it, but it never failed to throw him off-kilter. For all his unwilling admiration, the swordsman was usually nothing but accomodating to Gokudera's daily activities. He certainly had patience that the bomber lacked in spades, considering it had been years since that clumsy kiss in a now-nonexistent sushi shop.
"Hibari," came the first thing to his mind, and this time the reaction was much more dynamic than anything he'd prompted before: Yamamoto visibly started, something like the beginnings of a glare forming around his lips and eyes, shoulders stiff as if he were about to run. Gokudera continued gamely, "The reason he came was because...he told you later that day, didn't he?"
"Yes," came the grunted answer, and he couldn't remember the last time Yamamoto looked like that, like a dark house with nobody inside. Maybe the flesh was still there, maybe the heart was still beating - but there was no sensation in those limbs, just like there ceased to be any meaning in the job he did or the role he played in this fucked-up merry-go-round of life.
But he had a point, he really did. There was a reason the 10th sent him here; it was because he was the one closest to breaking into those walls and poking around a bit without damaging much. Seeing his social track record, though, Gokudera also reflected wryly that maybe Yamamoto had fallen in love with the wrong person - his weapon was dynamite, after all. He tended to blow things up rather than smooth them over.
They were partners, though, and that meant more than any words could tell that Yamamoto had put up with him more than months, more than years. He took a deep breath, pulling out that foggy whatever you call it feelings from the back of his mind where it'd been lurking all these years, waiting for a day to come when they could take that step forward. Now he knew what the last missing component had been: Yamamoto had always been the one supporting Gokudera, and never the other way around.
It's simple after all, Gokudera thought to himself.
The pain in his foot brought him back to the present. Pushing the door open with his hand, he met the other's eyes squarely and began, "I asked Hibari about the house. Building a new one, I mean."
Nonplussed at the sudden change in subject, the swordsman's grip on the door momentarily loosened. Gokudera didn't rush in, though - this had to be done with trust, because that was really what it was all about in the end, wasn't it? Whether or not he trusted Yamamoto with something he'd never trusted with anybody in this world.
And the answer was shocking even after all this time: yes. He never felt safer than when he was with the swordsman.
"The house...," he began, and stumbled over the words. The truth burned in his throat, knocking against his tongue to break out and fly. "The house, it...it's not the same. I mean," he fought for the right phrase that might let him step inside like he used to.
"You are home," he finished finally in one breath, and despite the corny-ness of the statement, his face told the swordsman that he damned well meant it.
-------------
Yamamoto stared at the other for a long, tight-lipped moment before he inched the door open subtly and moved aside to let the other Guardian pass. He watched as his partner eased inside, taking up as little space as possible in the corner between the desk and the door. When Gokudera had come huffing and puffing up to his door five minutes ago, he wasn't sure what to say or expect, but it certainly was the quiet declaration he'd been waiting years for.
Now, the other was staring up at him with a mixture of relief and anxiety warring on his face, and he had no idea where to begin. That was the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't tell where his life ended and started right now, much less figure out what the hell the bomber was doing here at three in the morning. He knew, of course, that Gokudera was scheduled to return around this time from Singapore - but he hadn't expected a personal visit. Yamamoto wasn't at his best, he expected that little piece of news to be worldwide by now, but he could deal, he really could. Alone.
He'd spent the last few days in more than a daze, he knew that. Yet for all its suddenness, he hadn't really felt the loss until he looked up at the room he'd spent the last five years of his life living out of. His father had been here once, after all, just once, and that one time had been to tell Takeshi face-to-face that if he followed this path, he would have to find another place to stay if he ever visited Namimori.
Why?, he had asked, but knew the answer. His father had been young once too, and he had no idea if anyone else had seen it, but Sawada Iemitsu always gave that queer apologetic look whenever he looked at Yamamoto the younger. Something had happened there - so similar he could almost taste it, except Tsuna had succeeded where his father had failed - but when his father had stormed out of the mansion all those years ago, he'd lost the chance to ask.
His father had told him once, when he was younger, though: Your mother's not really buried here. His old man's face had been smiling grimly, but there had been something ugly and scarred under those words, patched over instead of healed. He hadn't understood the real meaning then, ringing true among the gravestones.
Ancient history. He might have laughed sarcastically at himself, if he were the type. As it was, there was clearly a black hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, because everything he thought about and everything he should be feeling was being sucked into that merciless void.
Still, despite his suspicions about his father, he owed Gokudera a response. "You caught me at a bad time."
"Sorry," the bomber answered, characteristically looking anything but.
He turned his back on the bomber so he couldn't see his face, and gripped the end of the tabletop so hard it creaked. Really, it was quite simple what he wanted, when it came down to it: he wanted Gokudera, he wanted to become a better swordsman, he wanted to protect his family and he wanted his father to acknowledge him again. Such a simple little list. He'd never had to strike anything off of it before, but here he was doing it. Mentally he crossed it out in red, grinning hysterically as he did it. His mind spun; what was he doing here? Why didn't he just stay home and take over the shop like a good little boy?
"Are you alright?," the other Guardian asked after it became clear he wasn't going to say anything.
He dug moodily into his current conversational topics, and came up with, "Did you know my father was going to die?"
The question, which at first hung warm between them, froze as Gokudera's understanding caught up with him. Through the reflection in the window, he calmly surveyed the other's reaction: disbelief and then horror, and then finally guilt. He waited for the other to gather his thoughts, aware of the inner conflict the other was facing but unable to care, not with that endless abyss punched in his chest eating up everything he cared about. From somewhere he managed to dreg up some weary illusion of anger, aimed at both the Millefiore and the man standing in front of him.
You'd better prove yourself my partner this time, or it's over. He almost laughed at the painful little beat his tortured heart gave then.
But Gokudera's face was clear and honest as a child's as he answered, "No. I didn't." Yamamoto gave him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion, but the bomber's face remained straight almost to the point of defiance. The Rain Guardian almost gave himself up to fury then, because it didn't make sense. If the right-hand man and self-proclaimed information center of the family didn't know about the enemy closing in on his father, then who was to blame? Because this festering, writhing guilt had to be pinned to someone, or else he might just explode.
He did laugh this time. Only Gokudera could make him go from dead to enraged in the space of three seconds.
"No?," he echoed, mockingly. The bomber seemed taken aback; Yamamoto only spoke in that tone during interrogations, and never towards him. "Then why is the shop gone, and why wasn't there more security in that area?" He paced past the other Guardian, face etched in a snarling mask as his brain once again ran over the facts Hibari had told him and came up with nothing. "Tell me, partner," he was on the verge of sneering, "why is it my father who's dead?"
"We're all being targeted," the bomber snapped back, voice somewhat softened in sympathy. "Everyone who's remotely related to us is on a hit list somewhere - if you don't believe me, go ask the Mafia Times, they come out with that Most Wanted column every week." Frustrated, Gokudera ran a hand through his hair, letting the silver strands spill back rakishly into his face. If this is an act, it's a pretty damn good one, Yamamoto thought harshly.
The bomber blew a sigh like a curse, and continued, "This time - it just happened to be Yamamoto-san."
"Just happened to be my father." Yamamoto dumbly repeated it, because he couldn't believe anyone, especially Gokudera, would be stupid enough to say that to him right now.
To his credit, the bomber looked like he was seriously regretting his slip. "Yeah," he gulped in answer.
Not that that was going to save him now.
Yamamoto spun and slammed his heel freely into the other's chest. The Storm Guardian rallied at the last moment, arms coming up to block, but too late, too limply. He slammed into a corner of the table, then stumbled clumsily against the leg of a chair. The swordsman stalked forward, right hand absently reaching out to catch the ever-present Kintoki where it leaned against the couch. With one swift movement he drew it - Are you crazy?! Put it down!, a part of his mind screamed - and pointed it steadily at the other.
Gokudera continued to retreat, hands on the walls as if he had to ground himself to something solid to remind himself this was really happening. Abruptly Yamamoto realized he was smiling; that sick little monster that came out during assassinations had emerged, writhing like some skewered black snake in his chest. Through the haze of blinding rage - what does he mean he didn't KNOW, of course he KNEW, he's the fucking right-hand man of the Vongola boss! - a dim, distant side of him knew it was Gokudera, the same boy that used to call him baseball idiot, the one that looked at him with such pity, such hesitance.
Why was he angry? This was wrong in so many ways. But he couldn't stop his feet from moving forward, couldn't control the wrath that bubbled out of him like acid. The world or fate or God or whatever had taken a little too much this time, and now the control was whisked out of his hands, as if he were another person. Those fucking divine bastards were too far away for him to hit, but Gokudera was here now, looking the same as he always did, defying him, denying him -
- Kintoki crunched unmercifully into the doorframe as he maneuvered into the bedroom. He wasn't swinging seriously or else one of them wouldn't be standing by now, but he was angry, angrier than he'd been in a long time. It wasn't the same kind of feeling he got for enemies of the family, either - that was simple, and easy. Don't let them escape. Cut them down. Pie, really.
But he really was hurt this time, and he was starting to think about what little Gokudera had said about being a lone wolf when he was younger, because if anyone got too close, they could stab you in the back like this. They could betray you and that would wound you worse than anything physical you could ever receive. And goddammit, it did hurt and he was angry now and no, he wasn't rational, because if he were still in that state of mind he would have thrown away the sword and told Gokudera I'm sorry for not being a little more patient, but I really think you should leave now.
Except the look the other Guardian was giving him didn't seem like it was anything he could throw at him could shake him from whatever impossible mission he'd placed upon himself. Yamamoto tested it, just to be sure. With a movement large enough to dodge, he stabbed the sword forward, missing the killing blow by a couple of centimeters. Gokudera froze, feeling the sharp edge of the blade bite gently into his neck, but despite the fear in his eyes, there was also determination, to - what? Apologize?
It's too late for that, he snarled in his mind. Whether it's him or Tsuna apologizing, I just can't - won't - hear it right now.
Despite that, though, he didn't want to move forward. The anger in him sizzled and spat, but even as he felt like blundering through everything standing in his way, he was still part of this family despite any losses he'd incurred. Or maybe because of the losses he'd incurred - everyone seemed to walk around with some chip in their shoulder, and now he could join in the fun. He'd lost enough now, hadn't he? To join the Losers-At-Life table during poker night?
His attention whipped back to the bomber when he took a shaky step forward, and then another. Yamamoto could feel his partner's anxiety vibrating through the blade. He looked away; the trust and honesty, something he'd longed to see for so long on the other Guardian's face, was too naked for him to bear. Why now?, he hissed in his mind. Why now when it's too late, and I'm already broken?
"What do you want?," he heard himself spit out, a tad embarrassed he hadn't figured it out already. Wasn't it him who always claimed to know what his partner was thinking?
Gokudera gripped his sword-hand and firmly lowered it so it pointed to the floor. They were standing so close that Yamamoto could smell the cologne the other wore, something low and mixed with the biting scent of dynamite. Once he would have retreated, leery of anything that might piss off the other Guardian or try whatever foolish patience he had. But now, he simply didn't care, he wasn't feeling anything anymore but a deep, soul-sucking tiredness now that all of his anger had been tossed into the void too.
Maybe this was where he was supposed to laugh and tell Gokudera, I get it, alright. Won't bother you anymore. Just close the door quietly behind you, alright? But words in themselves hurt too much right now to say, much less whisper, because then his mind would just close up completely, thinking of those nights when he imagined a body beside him, a smile that came rarely, clever hands clenched around his waist...
There, he thought almost proudly through his bone-clenching fatigue, it's still there after all. My abused heart.
A touch on his face brought him back to reality. Irrationally he felt a surge of anger, looking into Gokudera's forgiving expression. There was just something about that understanding that he didn't want to accept - because in the end he could admit that it was his fault, that he wasn't looking after his father as he should have been. And with that thought, he sagged again, feeling Gokudera's hand on his shoulder, yet mind unwilling to accept whatever comfort the other was giving him.
"Today," the other Guardian managed to gulp, "today I'm here for you, Yamamoto. Today," and here Yamamoto finally could put a name to the look Gokudera was giving him, "today, I'm whatever you want me to be..."
It was the same heart-in-your-eyes look he gave Gokudera whenever he thought the other wasn't looking. Mooning, the little guy had called it, but hadn't followed it up with It's a liability, so at the time he thought it was alright. And now, on someone else's face, it was wrong. His brain, in chaos as it was, simply rejected it.
"'Be what I want'?," he echoed, faintly incredulous but more unfeeling.
"Yes." He could see the bomber's eyes searching for him, looking for some sign he was still there under all that festering emptiness, but he had to apologize. The lights were on, but nobody was home, he could feel it himself.
It was a situation he'd always imagined himself in, Gokudera in front of him, offering all of himself. Even for one night, even for three minutes, Yamamoto thought he might be happy for his entire life. But nothing could touch him now - not this foreign honesty shining out at him, not the ridiculous circumstances that brought it about - and so, in a manner befitting an mafia assassin and interrogation expert, he backhanded the other man across the face as hard as he could. The smack that sounded in the room both delighted and disgusted him.
Gokudera stumbled, hand on his cheek, eyes wide and watery. Yamamoto couldn't take his eyes off of that green, the smooth color of camellia leaves, such a bright point of color in the otherwise dark room. He dropped his sword as he shoved forward again, hands reaching for the other's collar even before his brain had fully caught up with him. "'Whatever I want'?," he repeated again, this time mockingly. His face spread into a smile; he couldn't imagine what he looked like, he was so out of it, but from the look on his partner's face, it was probably horrible. "You'd do that for me, after I killed your father last night, Ricci-bocchama?"
Sure, it was in another languge, but the meaning was clear. He watched as Gokudera's face froze in disbelief, before darkening into the familiar state of incurable temper. A mafia-born and bred, he'd thought when he saw the pictures. The young master of the family. The swordsman had to laugh now, face twisting into some hideous parody of a smile, at the anger Gokudera now displayed. Did he expect for it to go wrong, for his father to survive? Somewhere deep inside, did he regret he was joining the long line of father-killers?
Gokudera's strained voice cut off his train of thought suddenly. "I told you not to take jobs outside of the Family. Why are you still taking them?"
Yamamoto's laughter faded as he backtracked rapidly. So that wasn't it - so that conviction had been there from the beginning. Another line to draw between them - Yamamoto who still wanted his father alive, Gokudera who'd always wanted his father dead. But adding another difference to the equation didn't matter to him, not now that Yamamoto realized he was angry after all.
"I do it because it's the only thing I have left that's mine," he snarled the last word like a beast. The bomber stood firm and indignant against him. Yamamoto's irritation peaked again; he shoved the other back until he couldn't go any further. Whatever you want, his partner had promised him, but where was that promise in those shuttered eyes? "I do it because it's the only thing that's not controlled by you!"
"Well it's not my fault you gave up control in the first place now, is it?," Gokudera snapped back as well as he could. Yamamoto still had his hands fisted in the other's coat, cornering him into the section of wall between the window and the dresser; the other attempted to jerk out of his grasp, but the swordsman had him cornered him immovable by the collar. "You joined the Family on your own free will, and you said you'd deal with the consequences when they came. And they've come, dammit, don't you go piling your fucking misplaced survivor's guilt on -"
Yamamoto kissed him. There was nothing for all of five seconds, and then they were biting at each other, bruising hard enough to hurt, bodies jerking wildly against each other in some mad parody of making love. Finally they broke for air, glaring at each other as if they could pin the other down with a look alone. Something not quite sane flared like a predator's hiss in Yamamoto's eyes; it was answered at once by a snarl of challenge from Gokudera, and then their hands were ripping at clothes, popping buttons to grip skin, smooth and spreading greedily under eager fingers.
Mouths clashed again, biting to draw blood this time, and when the bomber backed away this time it stained the edge of Yamamoto's mouth. Sensing the moment however remotely, Yamamoto's hands slowed to grip the other's shoulders, looking hard into the other's face for any trace of hesitation. His fears were unfounded, though - Gokudera was shivering, but with anger and excitement. Something inside of him jumped in response, and he wasn't careful at all as he brought the bomber's face close to his again, to grind a sensitive earlobe between his teeth. Gokudera bucked into his legs in response; they could feel each other clearly in that moment, thighs pressed together like a prayer -
With all his force he tossed the other Guardian onto the bed. The bomber cracked his head noisily against the wall and winced; Yamamoto didn't give him a chance to recover before he pounced himself, tearing Gokudera's jacket and shirt aside, undressing both of them as fast he possibly could. As Gokudera recovered from where he was probably seeing still seeing stars, the swordsman yanked off the last barriers of cloth. Disbelievingly, his hand gripped skin and more pale skin, pinching and jerking until Gokudera writhed in discomfort under him. The other's face was a mask of pain and annoyance, hands latching onto Yamamoto's shoulders, bitten fingernails clenched so hard they left red crescents in his back.
Then Gokudera's head turned to the side, and he saw the bright mark his hand had left there. He couldn't help but scrape up the bomber's side with his mouth then, teeth fastened on one shoulder as he bit down. Gokudera might've yelped, he wasn't sure, but the blind struggle that followed was definitely nothing rational. Their knees tangled, Yamamoto trying to hold the other Guardian down as he angled for a nipple this time, Gokudera fighting back with all of his might. His face was torn into something not unlike what Yamamoto had seen directed towards him for most of their childhood together - hate.
But then he would catch sight of that reddened blotch on the other's cheek, and again that ghasty humor would lodge itself on his face again. He would swoop down again until Gokudera pushed his face back with one hand, pupils wide and mouth split in a vicious slash of utter abhorrence.
Somewhere in Yamamoto's mind, a voice was screaming This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Vaguely he realized Gokudera was speaking, cutting swaths through the air with curses. Hearing the narrative, he bit down in the same place again, right in the junction between neck and shoulder, and was darkly elated to hear his name there, along with enough spiteful words to flay his skin from muscle. "Yes," the bomber was saying, "you fucking bastard how could you go saying it was me I'll kill you you promised me you'd give up that name Yamamoto -"
It was that one word at the end that convinced him to flip the other on his stomach, dragging that slim set of hips towards him. Gokudera pushed up suddenly, knocking him flat on his back as the other Guardian's foot connected with his face. Yamamoto recovered quickly, dragging the other by the foot towards him and away from the drawer in the nightstand. The bed shook as they grappled, nails digging into cheeks and elbows into ribs. Somewhere along the way Yamamoto planted his foot hard into the bomber's stomach, and suddenly the resistance abated, and he reached forward -
- his hands closed on the other's pale throat, and squeezed. Gokudera flailed dizzily, choking up a storm of curses as his hands ripped down Yamamoto's arms, knees digging into the other's waist. A dull thunk! signalled the wall had been kicked, again; Gokudera's body writhed underneath as he coughed, trying to get air in his lungs but Yamamoto was too strong. Heartbeats passed; the bomber's movements became slower, more sluggish, until his hands simply rested on Yamamoto's elbows, eyes flickering sightlessly towards the other, mouth still moving as if to answer his unspoken question.
Why? Why me?
It was then the swordsman caught sight of the mark again, the mark he'd made. All at once he let go, and Gokudera's body doubled up as he hacked and fought to return air to his lungs. Gradually the white lights dancing in front of the bomber's eyes faded, until he was staring at his own knees again, panting as if he'd run a marathon. Somewhere in the vicinity, Yamamoto was rustling through the drawer, shutting it with a careless kick. Then with one motion he'd flipped Gokudera onto his stomach again, hands tight like a warning against the bomber's hip.
The Storm Guardian managed to peek over his shoulder, where Yamamoto was busy squeezing lotion onto his hand. He didn't look as absently destructive as he did before, for which he was grateful. Now he just looked studiously practical and maybe a tad distracted, but otherwise on the mend.
But then the other looked up, eyes fixed on the mark on his cheek, and Gokudera's hackles rose again, because that was the look Yamamoto gave to targets before he sliced them to pieces. One large hand shoved his face into the pillow as a finger entered him without warning. He stifled his shout of surprise into the sheets, feeling whatever anger was left being rapidly replaced by embarrassment.
No, there was anger left, because he knew the dumb lug was thinking the same as him, wherever he was in that spiky head of his. This isn't the way it's supposed to be.
He shifted to crane his neck backwards just as Yamamoto decided the bare pleasantries had been properly exchanged, and was abruptly pushed down again as the swordsman entered him in one brutal thrust. This time the Storm Guardian clenched his teeth and hands on the sheets below, coughing the next moment when the cloth left his mouth dry. Yamamoto didn't wait before moving roughly, jerking in and out with all the finesse of a drunken god. Gokudera huffed, openmouthed at the pain in his spine, before his mind caught up with whatever it'd been thinking before.
"Irony aside, why did you take that job?," he grumbled to himself.
He wasn't expecting an answer - hell, he wasn't expecting Yamamoto to even had heard - but then again, the swordsman didn't make a sound as they fucked (eerily enough). Between thrusts Gokudera peeked over his shoulder, watching as the tendons in the other Guardian's neck surfaced with strain. "I meant it when I said -," the swordsman gasped, "- when I said it was all I had of myself."
Gokudera winced as Yamamoto grabbed the already-sore spot where he'd been kicked. "You aren't just a -," he groaned suddenly, the sound filling the room, and the swordsman automatically realigned himself to push relentlessly into that spot, "- not just a killer, you're also my -"
"- partner?," Yamamoto finished. Hands squeezed Gokudera's hips until white static crinkled at the edge of his vision as the swordsman rode out his orgasm, mouth open where it panted, then finally lowered and planted a kiss right there between Gokudera's shoulderblades. He didn't last very long, the bomber thought to himself, but then again, we were fiddling around before. Rapidly he backed away from thinking about what that "fiddling" consisted of; it was just a little too far from the way he'd always imagined it, slow enough to be alcohol induced, sweet enough to be a dance.
And then rational thought left him, because Yamamoto leaned down and brought him off with three strokes and a gentle bite to the inside of his thigh. As Gokudera shuddered down from his high, his eyes focused on his partner's back facing towards him. No scars, unlike his front; despite himself the bomber felt like patting himself on the back for a job well done. This time, too, he hoped the swordsman would move past this obstacle, but at least he'd made his point clear that he'd be here, supporting Yamamoto however he needed -
- though, looking at that defeated set of shoulders, Gokudera thought it was rather too early to be celebrating.
"Hey," he murmured, and something in him scrambled in worry when his partner didn't respond, didn't even look up or act like he was startled. "You okay?"
"I hurt you." The statement came out bluntly and without preamble, but this at least was so predictable the bomber almost smiled.
He rubbed his throat ruefully as he answered, "It's nothing." And then louder, just to make it clear. "As if you could hurt me." You're forgiven.
The smile the swordsman bit back then was almost - almost - a normal response.
Silence hummed between the two of them. Idly Gokudera reached up, tracing the lines of muscle stretched over ribs that had been healed over again and again before Yamamoto spoke. "I didn't mean - I mean, I did, but it wasn't supposed to come out that way," he ended lamely. About my father, came the unsaid words.
Gokudera turned that over in his head, before asking softly, "Did you ever get the chance to apologize?"
But both knew the answer. "I'm sure he knows," the bomber continued without waiting for a reply, "Parents don't forget their children." Even that rat bastard, he added mutinously in his head. After being contacted by his own father multiple times through Bianchi, he understood that much.
Yamamoto seemed to be still deep in thought, not that Gokudera minded. He looked the other over, noting the shadows in his face, the half-slouched posture of his back, the way his toes stretched against the rug. One tanned hand looked lonely where it balanced near him, so the bomber took it in both of his. The swordsman stiffened in surprise and started to turn towards him, but then faced the wall again, face more troubled than ever.
Gradually, though, Gokudera felt the hand close back around his. I need you. And how long had Yamamoto been screaming that in his head before today?
He'd make it up, the Storm Guardian decided all at once. He'd make it up a hundred times over to the stupid lug that saw fit to stick near him all these years. Yamamoto would never know what hit him - though Gokudera was getting nervous thinking about it. He'd never taken care of anyone else, after all. Usually someone else did it for him.
Yamamoto's voice broke through his thoughts. "I have something to show you," he murmured softly. His thumb caressed the top of Gokudera's hand so shyly the bomber almost smacked him. It wasn't as if that much had changed, after all. But it was nice knowing he wasn't the only one staring into this new set of circumstances with a deer-in-headlights look on his face.
"After you move in with me," he affirmed tartly.
The split-second surprise Yamamoto showed him then was priceless. Watching the swordsman's face melt into a small, but real smile - well, that was even more so.
Yay. Finally finally finally finished.