Reborn fic: "Family Matters"
Title: Family Matters
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 398059
Rating: NC-17 *evil giggle*
Notes: dedicated to festivewind (again?!), for saying something a long time ago about wanting to see 3980 with Yamamoto on top. Thanks to swn_2gthr_wrng for her beta!
C. Family Matters
They were riding in the car when the question came.
Gokudera tensed at the first touch of fingers in his hair, but half-relaxed when he realized who it was. Everybody else in the backseat was asleep, after all - the 10th and his two sons, curled up like a family of black-and-brown puppies. The only other one who was still awake was Yamamoto in the passenger seat, currently twisting Gokudera's longish silver hair through his fingers with a curious look on his face.
"Gokudera," he wondered aloud, "why did you decide to grow out your hair?"
He counted to ten until the sudden spur of memories subsided. Yamamoto waited patiently for an answer - he could just see the confused look on the other's face - and finally he found the strength able to mutter, eternally embarrassed, "None of your business, idiot. What is this, fifty questions?"
Thankfully, Yamamoto left it at that.
---------
"Good work," he muttered under his breath, but the girl stood up and saluted as if she'd been electrocuted. Around the two of them, thirty TV screens flashed various viewpoints of the mansion from every possible angle every nine seconds. Gokudera had meticulously programmed it that way after taking into account the glaring impossibility of watching close to a hundred screens at once, coupled with the fact that humans just could not forgo the need to blink once in a while. He had briefly commented on the idea of either giving all the security guards pieces of wood to prop up their eyes with and plenty of eyedrops or having all the security cameras routed as a 20-by-10 screensaver to his computer - but judging by the look on the 10th's face after he said it, he took that as a No.
He puffed grumpily around his cigarette. In response the security girl trembled in her salute. He'd rather thought it was a good idea himself, other people's privacy be damned.
Waving his hand aside to the girl who exited with all possible haste for her overdue lunch at the kitchens, he settled himself into the lone swivel chair in the middle of the room and peered up at the screens. Most of them showed no people at all, giving shots of the perimeter gardens from the cameras cleverly hidden in the mansion's walls. The second to the right on the top showed the 10th for a couple of seconds; within a couple of keystrokes, Gokudera had rerouted the rest of the cycle to the remaining twenty-nine screens to switch at a slightly accelerated rate, keeping that one on the Vongola's new boss. To his approval, the 10th seemed to be working hard, bent over his desk as he was, reading what was probably the Chiavarone's new proposal on titanium-plated communicators in the shape of silver teeth that they might sell to the American government once R&D got their act together. Halfway through, the 10th audibly gave a sigh, leaned back, and self-massaged his tense shoulders. The clarity of the picture was so precise Gokudera could have counted the hairs on the nape of his neck.
Nothing but the best for the family, after all.
Tearing his eyes away from the screen with the 10th, he surveyed the rest of the displays with growing boredom. Haru and Kyoko were in the kitchen cooking something; his sister was (thankfully) smoke-screened by what seemed to be some exploding equipment in the training room (though that might also have to do with the new concoction she'd come up with last week: dynamite cakes); Lambo and I-Pin were "discussing homework" over a game of cards in the library. Everybody else was off on assignments - all was as it should be.
A screen flickered right in front of him to the circuit around the underground dojo. It showed the top level first, where Gokudera caught a glimpse of two bodies under the concrete replica of the Rain Rings stage, flickering into vision just for a second before disappearing behind the curtain of the waterfall. Once it shifted to the second level he stopped that screen too, now clearly able to see the forms of two swordsmen duking it out in their daily practice round under the spray of the leaking floor above. A few more keystrokes recalibrated the neighboring screens to the rest of the cameras to that room, showing various views of Yamamoto and Squalo's backs. As usual Yamamoto was panting this late into the sparring session, but Squalo was only breathing lightly. Sweat or water glittered in their hair, over their faces and dotted their clothes.
Gokudera turned the volume up on his headset. It seemed there was some entertainment to be had after all.
"Had enough yet, katana-brat?" Squalo's voice was rough and metallic through the speakers.
Yamamoto lunged in reply. Gokudera knew that look - it was the one that said I'll have your head or die trying - and it had thankfully never been aimed at him. These two had no other possible competition in the entire Family, or maybe even all of the world; their swordsmanship was just too good. As far as they knew, the only possible challenge was already standing in front of them.
The half-Italian suppressed the urge to hmph! like a child at the thought of one particular swordsman. They worked well enough as a team, Yamamoto and him. He took care of the surveillance, incoming enemies, and all possible wrinkles in the plan; the other did everything close-up or near impossible in terms of physical ability, and all negotiations. Gokudera tended to snarl a price and chew the other side out when they didn't agree; Yamamoto, on the other hand, knew what compromise consisted of.
And thankfully so, the 10th had remarked on more than one occasion. Which meant Yamamoto just worked harder at it. Gokudera had the vague idea that he was the guinea pig and sounding board for these abilities; he always seemed to find himself in some sort of "If you do this I'll do that" situation with his partner. If you bring me coffee I'll buy you lunch. If you finish that report I'll pick up the kids from school.
If you would stop denying to yourself what he's offering, you might not be so lonely at night.
Gokudera hastily pulled at his customary mug of caffeinated bliss.
Continuing delicately on his previous vein of thought, it appeared as though Yamamoto didn't seem to try very hard when he was walking that dubiously invisible middle line. The man seemed to consistently startle everybody he met with his sudden laughter. It was exactly that good humor that salvaged most of the deals Gokudera failed to make. Every time he thought he was done with being annoyed about his own inability, Yamamoto would pull off another spectacular save and in turn Gokudera would storm around the mansion, irritated as hell and snapping at everyone who might have the misfortune to creep into the same vicinity as him. Yamamoto's ability did, however, get the job done (that remarkable talent to crawl ever-so-sneakily under people's skin until BAM! they couldn't refuse him anymore).
He'd seen it happen, quite literally, to himself. That infectious invincible feeling, that there was always a path to be had if only you just looked. That things would turn out alright, no matter how grim it looked now. Yamamoto just had the will and the stupidity to keep believing that when nothing was turning out the way Gokudera'd expected - and he had to admit, usually the other was right. Things always sorted themselves out in the end, for better or for worse. Deals, traitors, failed relationships - life went on, and Gokudera watched his partner laugh through it all.
Sometimes he couldn't suppress a chuckle himself. The guy could just surprise him like that.
He checked the clock: it was running late for one of their sparring sessions, they'd usually ended twenty minutes ago. Of course, he'd also been sitting here like an idiot staring absently at them bat at each other with sharp pointy objects for a while now too. As they squared off on opposite sides of the room again, Gokudera leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the computer panel thoughtfully. Alright, so he wasn't being completely stupid and girly when he found himself ogling Yamamoto's water-soaked form. It was a very nice, very sleek form for such a tall guy, after all, and Gokudera had been trained from childhood to admire pretty things.
Apparently they'd both had enough, because they straightened at the same time, and then similarly cracked their necks in opposite directions. Yamamoto rolled his shoulder as his face relaxed back into that easy grin. It was returned in an equally white-toothed crescent as his sparring partner clapped him on the back, face turned downward from the camera. Gokudera felt a burst of irritation at the casual gesture despite his best efforts to fight it down. It twisted further when Yamamoto returned the camaraderie by bumping their shoulders together briefly. Squalo was the shorter one now, but he could still reach up and tousle the other's hair like old times; in response Yamamoto said something about the other taking care of his hair like a girl, and both laughed.
The exchange was completely natural and unstaged despite there being an undercurrent of rivalry buried beneath it all. Yet at every touch Gokudera found that knot in his chest twisting tighter and tighter, as if a hand was pushing a screw deeper into his chest. It was a disturbing feeling, especially coupled with the fact that he didn't particularly know why he was feeling it. That is, he wasn't sure why his socially-starved side was so fixated on Yamamoto when there were so many other fish in the sea. Fish with chests, even.
He forced himself to look at the other screens while the two swordsmen showered, still exchanging jokes about the state of family affairs. His earpiece crackled with their muffled laughter and the patter of water on the tiles. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he couldn't get the picture of Yamamoto naked under the spray out of his head. There'd been one time when he'd walked on the other while he was getting out of the shower in all of his tanned-skin glory, hair drooping cutely with unshaken drops. It was a beautiful sight, indeed, the exquisite lines of muscles stretched out in front of him, juxtaposed with the soft curve of a single-scarred jaw. Somehow he'd managed to calmly apologize for the intrusion and shut his eyes to the wet dream of so many female Family members. Half-heartedly he tried to justify his fixation with that image with the regretful lack of a camera to possibly capture the hearts and incomes of some fluttering teenage hearts, but even he had to admit the flimsiness of that argument when faced with the reality that he made more in one year than he could ever make his whole life as a photographer.
The shower switched off and he looked back quickly in relief and then horror as he averted his eyes again. His imagination was really quite worse, though - there he could see every drop that slid past the other's chest and hips. Fortunately he had their banter to focus on: something about the new cellphones being too "Gokudera-ized" for real-time use. Squalo was fully against, while Yamamoto was patiently biding his time before he could split the argument in his favor (it was a real disappointment, how he could see these traps being sprung on other people but never himself). The bomber was a little insulted, if not resigned; there were plenty of other people who'd complained about it, after all. Sure, he'd added a couple more programs and reconfigured most of the others, but he didn't think they were that complicated...
"Why issue them for everybody if nobody can use them?," Squalo muttered as he jammed his own device into his coat pocket.
Yamamoto shrugged. "To him these things are easy. It's not that hard to figure out if you know G-script -"
"That kooky alphabet he made when he was in high school?" Squalo snorted. "It works? I thought he programmed the mansion's AC on that alphabet too, and isn't that why every time Sawada touches it, it starts freaking out and makes this place an Arctic away from the Arctic Circle?"
The Japanese shrugged as he toweled himself down carelessly. "It's not that bad, really. Don't you just wrap your hair around your neck like a scarf anyway? It shouldn't be a problem for you."
"It's a security hazard!"
Yamamoto laughed, and the sound startled both watchers. "Is that because little Kyoko-chan yanked it last time?"
"Vuooooi!," the older swordsman snarled back. "Kyoko-chan is fine! And, I'm still not finished with that damned cellphone thing - the main problem is that nobody but him knows the damn G-script." The older swordsman's voice was muffled as he attempted to dry his hair one-handed. "It's like he's lording it above all of us that he made a language when he was fifteen and we didn't."
That wasn't really it, Gokudera reflected. It was just he felt less and less like dealing with idiots these days, and let his appliances do the talking for him. Plus, he usually didn't have to, if Yamamoto was around.
Yamamoto shrugged, and the movement rippled all the way down to the tiny piece of terry cloth around his waist. Gokudera hastily gulped some more coffee as his partner replied, "I know G-script."
Immediately he spat it back out. What? When???
"Tsuna and I figured it out when it became apparent he was going to write most of his secret messages in it. Took a couple of weeks to get everything, though - and the only reason we could figure it out was because we knew him so well, really." The Japanese took the towel away from the other swordsman and began to dry the hair more efficiently. "It was causing Tsuna some problems, not being able to read missives directly, so..."
"So you know it, eh? His own private language?"
"It's not impossible to figure out, it's just -"
"He didn't teach it to you?"
A pause. Gokudera couldn't see Yamamoto's face from any of the camera angles, but he knew that set of broad shoulders better than his own hand - and right now they were bunched halfway between defensive and escape. Gokudera felt a bit defensive himself; a long time ago he'd hated the other, but they'd come a long way since then. They were partners now, the best team in the Famiglia, sent on all the toughest missions. They'd found out a lot about their similarities and even more about their differences, and come to terms with all of them. He would even venture to say they were comfortably past just a working relationship and that it was a real synchrony that drove their work now.
He just...didn't like that someone else, some random third party, was pointing out that there was still a gap between where they were and where they might be. Especially because it wasn't professional to go beyond just being coworkers, no matter how lenient the 10th was about family relationships, as long as both sides were consensual and no bad blood was shed over it (read: nobody died from it). They were the right and left hands of the head of the Vongola family - if they didn't set a good example to the Famiglia, who would?
"Haha," Yamamoto suddenly laughed into the earpiece, bright and false, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Squalo turned to look at the other straight in the eye, and on the screen his face was sharp and perfectly serious. "I mean, you'd think he might give some sort of sign when you're trying so damn hard every day to make him notice you, idiot." The last word was said roughly affectionate and sympathetically. Gokudera realized that it was the same sort of tone that he used when he insulted his partner - and abruptly felt irritated that both of them were doing the same thing.
Yamamoto's cheery face dropped as Gokudera thought it only did for him and the 10th. "I...," and even without being there the bomber could hear the hesitancy pregnant in that one word, "you make it seem like I'm desperate..."
"You aren't?" Squalo always had the knack of saying the shrewdest things in the smallest number of words possible.
The Japanese shook his head. The corners of his lips were down-turned in a real, miserable expression Gokudera hadn't ever seen before. It rattled him with memories of the days before he met the 10th, dodging from brief shelter to shelter armed only with his hatred of the world. It made him want to do something crazy like shout something sappy about friendship over the PA system, or reformat all the cellphones he just handed out in Yamamoto's name.
"No," the other answered stubbornly and resignedly, "I can't afford to be desperate, I'd change partners before it ever got that bad."
Change...partners?
The idea slashed through Gokudera like lightning. Yamamoto...transferring out of their super-combination? Out of their coffee breaks spent flicking toothpicks at each other? Sleepless stakeouts where they sometimes shared scant memories of their mothers? Breathlessly narrow escapes that usually involved explosions and hilariously on-the-spot improvisation? Out of squishing together on tiny army cots, waking up in the hospital to find his partner holding his hand? Getting sick at the same time because they spent too much time together?
You mean, and here Gokudera felt his chest squeeze him breathless with pain, there's a chance that he would give all of this up?
"You won't tell him directly?"
This time Yamamoto shook his head with more conviction, but still with the foreign expression of long-buried hurt. "I've thought about this for a while...but in the end this is his decision," he murmured, face lowered towards the ground, shoulders as defeated as they'd ever been. "I can't force him," Yamamoto added in a whisper.
Well, Gokudera thought as he stood, the decision's been made. He was making for the door with his coat when the earpiece still in his ear crackled with Squalo's voice.
"Guess I'd better move before that, hmm?"
That part of Gokudera that was brimming full of determination to throw all caution to the winds and just kiss the damn guy abruptly drained with dread.
He rushed back to the screen - and just in time, because in the instant he had his back turned Squalo had Yamamoto pinned up against the wall. The Japanese looked startled but not frightened in the least as the other stroked his cheek mockingly with his one hand. Gokudera's hands tightened on the edge of the table as the older swordsman leaned in and touched their foreheads together, face morphing from ferociously playful to something...tentatively affectionate.
"Squalo-san?" His partner prompted with the air of someone who already knew the answer before the question was even asked.
"Just once," Squalo murmured, and there was the faintest, impossible hint of begging in that tone, because proud Superbi Squalo never begged for anything. "Just once, I'd like you pay the same kind of desperate attention to me, Yamamoto."
And then Gokudera was leaning forward with a million spiteful insults at the tip of his tongue because Squalo was kissing Yamamoto, his Yamamoto Takeshi, the one that wanted him out of all the nicer, worthier people in the world. Push him back! He screamed in his head. What are you waiting for! But as the seconds dragged on, Yamamoto didn't move, just quietly let the other touch his cheeks, his nose, his chin with brief touches of his mouth.
Then, in just a little movement out of the corner of the picture, Yamamoto's hand came up to tangle in Squalo's half-dried hair.
The other retreated, incredulous and speechless. Gokudera thought maybe the choked sound he heard came from the Varia swordsman...or maybe himself. As he watched, the two on the screen stared at each other for one long moment, Yamamoto perfectly still and sure, Squalo still with that rarely-seen hesitant look on his face. He shuffled backward a step, but the grip on his long hair made it clear Yamamoto wasn't going to let go any time soon. Finally, recovering from the awkwardness of their current position, the older swordsman put it bluntly, "You don't want to do this."
"What makes you think it's all about you?," Yamamoto countered. With a little jerk of his hand, Squalo was forced to step forward to their previous closeness, hips almost touching. "Maybe I'm tired of waiting. Maybe I think about you too, Squalo-san." He leaned forward and there was that touch that Gokudera had daydreamed about when Yamamoto was cutely asleep in the passenger seat, that closemouthed kiss that might be just friendly or might mean something more... a gesture so far on the other side of their sacred status quo it might as well as be deep space. He was frightened by his own burning desire to be Squalo right now. But Squalo might be even more frightened if he knew how much Gokudera wanted to tear him limb from limb and strap him to 300kg of explosives and send him into the sky like a Tanabata fireworks display.
But he couldn't tear himself away from the screen long enough to go seven floors below and slap some sense into both of them. All he could do was watch hopelessly as Squalo finally leaned forward, tracing Yamamoto's arm before settling apprehensively on his waist, as if it might be knocked away any second. But it wasn't; instead the Japanese wound both hands in Squalo's long hair and brought him forward until their thighs touched. Squalo tore himself away guiltily, face conflicted even as his good hand lightly squeezed the other's bare hip. Yamamoto squeezed his arm back.
"You love him though," Squalo bit down harshly on the words, "you're like a dog when it comes to him, you live to the exclusion of all else. You don't see anything but him - I know it because I'm the same." Savagely the older swordsman ranted on, face twisting with wretched misery, "I don't see anything but -"
Yamamoto kissed him. Gokudera imagined those lips on his, sucking at upper lip, then at his lower. The sounds Squalo were making were hushed and needy, swallowed up in the face of Yamamoto's determination. When their tongues clashed both moaned low in their throat, a sound that went straight to Gokudera's groin. It was hot, he had to admit - seeing their hands clutching at the other, bodies grinding so that their towels fell forgotten to the ground. He almost turned away then, seeing their fully exposed bodies without the covering of steam, but - he just couldn't take his eyes away from the way Yamamoto moved eagerly against the other, couldn't help but imagine the face framed with silver hair was his, and he was the one diving in for another deep kiss.
"I'm not finished," Squalo finally managed to gasp out, but it didn't seem like he could remember exactly what he hadn't finished.
Yamamoto closed his hand around both of them as an answer. The sound Squalo made then went straight to Gokudera's soul. It was the cry he would make if he knew he would never have the happiness he wanted. Maybe something paler, maybe something just as full of heart and meaning - but never the feeling of basking in the full light of Yamamoto's desire. Squalo would always have his friendship, a relationship that went deeper than regular coworker's camaraderie, but Yamamoto would never be full-heartedly devoted to him, belong to him as the other belonged to him. All he would have is more of Yamamoto's cheer, which he gave in spades to anyone, everyone he met, even if the underworlders he met weren't worth such good feelings.
But he did give too much, and that was why they were all where they were now, Gokudera reflected. One self-locked into the security room and two downstairs with regretful feelings all around. It would make a nice TV drama, really, if it wasn't so goddamn personal.
The earpiece crackled again: "Squalo-san?"
They were really locked into their embrace this time, legs tangled together as Yamamoto pushed Squalo to the edge and Squalo roughly pushed back. Yamamoto nuzzled the other's ear at the same time he squeezed the other's ass; in return Squalo banged his head hard against the other's shoulder, something between a sigh and a sob huffing from his lips. Gokudera could see it, Yamamoto was bringing all of his concentration forward towards finding out what made his sparring partner feel good. It was exactly that focused look on his face that made Gokudera cup the front of his pants in response.
"Katana brat," Squalo moaned, his one good hand gripping the other helplessly for balance. All of a sudden he lifted his face, and Gokudera could see the poisonous glare through that mane of long hair. But more than that, the helpless inability to refuse, to push back this advance, to be the better man in the situation, it all showed on Squalo's face, and that was what rocked Gokudera breathlessly in his seat. Squalo tried to stare down his partner, but it came out desperately instead, "Don't you dare pity me, don't you ever give up on him for me -"
Yamamoto kissed him sweetly. Tanned hands pushed Squalo's silver hair away from his face, tangling messily in the silver strands. Squalo's furious reluctance slowly gave way to Yamamoto's steady insistence, until they were again thrusting against each other like eager schoolboys, faces blissful as Yamamoto bumped the other's forehead with his own. "Squalo-san," he said, and his voice was husky and low, Gokudera leaned back and closed his eyes to listen, "you're all I'm looking at now."
Gokudera groaned in response, the lonely sound echoing in the room. Quickly he freed himself, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. Yamamoto stroked them together with a sure smile on his face, steady as summer rain. Gokudera imagined those long-fingered hands on him, that half-smirk on his face as his tanned body leaned all the way in, catching him unawares with his lips. And then Yamamoto was twisting his nipples until he gasped and thrust forward, begging for more. One smooth word from those lips sent him further into heady bliss, until all he could see was the pupils of Yamamoto's eyes, almost gold, bearing into him with a simple question.
Will you let me do it?
Once, he would have said no. This time, Squalo answered for both of them:
"Yes, you bastard," the older swordsman snarled, baring his throat to the other's tongue. Gokudera panted hoarsely as Yamamoto grinned wider against the smooth column of neck, wondering what it was that made this one so special. The same thing that Squalo saw in him, most likely - though Gokudera definitely had more to complain about at this point, as he definitely wasn't in Squalo's fortunate shoes at the moment. Maybe it was because Yamamoto gave so much every day, in such obvious ways - bringing coffee, playing with the kids, staying up late to keep others company through the long hours, even simply barking that raucous laugh of his - that the condemned who'd grown up in sin felt they had to give something back. Something that Yamamoto wanted - and he didn't often have any wishes.
Which was why nobody ever hesitated when presented with the chance to return the favor. Plus, it was as sure as Murphy's Law that What Yamamoto Wants, Yamamoto Gets.
In one swift move Squalo was against the wall now, trapped where Yamamoto gripped his buttocks in one hand and wrenched back his head by his hair in the other. The older swordsman was making half-growling, half-whining sounds at not being able to see the other where he was, nipping lightly at Squalo's sides. Suddenly he yelped and arched, whether in pain or in pleasure, Gokudera wasn't sure. What he did spy was the finger that'd intruded in Squalo's ass, pushing deeper until Squalo fairly screamed at the sensation.
"No," he sobbed, but his eyes were dry, unseeing with lust, "you don't want -"
Yamamoto added another finger. This time Squalo keened, then yanked down harshly on the sound until he was just hissing harshly against the other's shoulder. The Japanese worked methodically until Squalo's breath shuddered not from the discomfort, but from the incredible reality of what was going to happen. Then he said softly, "This might work better if you turned around."
"Stop with your fucking wimpy suggestions and get on with it already," came the inevitable answer.
Yamamoto tilted the other's chin to look into Squalo's face one last time, just to make sure - as if this could be stopped right now - and then gently pressed his lips to the other's mouth, almost shyly. The kiss quickly evolved into something deeper involving them being bodily locked together, Yamamoto slowly lifting the other's thigh into position, fingers digging into his pale skin. Squalo braced himself against the wall, back squeaking against the white tiles, hair strung everywhere like spider's silk. They shared breath, eyes hooked together, blue to gold as they panted, so hot already yet still rearing for more -
Yamamoto shifted into position as if he'd done it all his life, and slid in with one smooth movement.
On the screen, Gokudera could see Squalo's eyes shut briefly in pain. Yet as Yamamoto waited patiently for the other to recover, legs barely trembling with the weight of another body, slowly Squalo blinked back into awareness. He squeezed the other's shoulder with his left hand, the stump of his right curled loosely around the Japanese's neck. Yamamoto took that as a sign and hesitantly began to move, mouth open and huffing heatedly with every thrust as Squalo twitched and clenched around him.
Gradually the younger swordsman settled into a rhythm, digging deep into the other as they balanced precariously against the wall. Squalo swallowed his sounds the best he could, head tilted back as the other worked his way up to a mind-blowing climax for the both of them. Like always, Yamamoto showed his abilities to adapt quickly and favorably to any situation; within the first few minutes he was plowing into the other's sweet spot without fail, mouth latched onto one nipple. The older swordsman seemed at a loss whether to just give it all up and scream his heart out, or drag the other's mouth back up to his face. As a compromise, he raked his fingers sharply down the other's back instead.
Yamamoto arched at the touch, abruptly biting down on the other's chest in return. Then, it seemed, in apology for everything he hadn't been and could never be, he devotedly sucked at the same spot until redness remained like a watercolor rose against Squalo's pale skin. The location was not lost on the older one, and briefly he let go of his death grip on the other's shoulder to examine it. It would fade, unlike the multitude of bullet and knife wounds he'd accumulated over the years - but the memory of it there like a stain over his heart, would remain with him for the rest of his life.
"Squalo-san," the other drew his attention back to those gold eyes, fixed on him.
In some ways he was grateful. In other ways, he felt even more doomed and wretchedly alone than ever.
They kissed, crescendo-ing back to their previous speed, and then further. Yamamoto let loose a groan, forehead against the spot he'd lavished a hickey on, and the sound traveled all the way down to Squalo's toes. His whole body seized as the younger swordsman drove in without mercy. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled their ears as they tumbled headfirst towards the end of this desperate dance, too far frustrated to hold back for too long -
- then Yamamoto was crying out his name, and he too was gone as if a million pounds of dynamite had just blown him back a hundred feet, the feeling was just too primeval, too unrestrained to possibly be human. On top of it all was the awareness that it was Yamamoto, that thrice-damned katana brat he'd underestimated in what seemed like a million years ago, that sent him rocking over the edge into hysterical despair. After all, this was a one time thing, this little travesty. It hadn't even been twenty minutes of bliss - yet while it was happening he'd felt as if it'd gone on forever.
But as he looked into Yamamoto's glazed-over, post-coital smile, he realized something had changed: that pit that'd resided for so long in his stomach was gone. He knew that it wasn't empty and one-sided now. Everything Yamamoto had done just proved that there was plenty of passion for him, even the kind he'd wanted since before the kid'd become of age. He knew what the other was saying with this, he could hear it loud and clear from watching his back even while he was watching someone else's: It wasn't meaningless that you fell in love with me.
And when you start to lose sight of yourself, at least remember this.
Yamamoto was saying this, surer than words.
As they sank down to the floor, completely exhausted, Squalo noticed the Japanese had extricated himself carefully from everything except for his hands, which were still wrapped securely in his long hair. As he looked at them with idle fascination - they were longer, tapered, and tanner against his white shoulder, he'd always hated looking like such a fucking girl when he was younger, which was probably why he tore his way out of that stereotype at an early age - Yamamoto's face slowly eased into his customary grin, edges softened by the look in his eyes, which were infinitely apologetic. "Squalo-san," he murmured, "you alright?"
The older swordsman gave a scoff and nudged his nose comfortably against the back of the other's hand. "Not that much older than you, brat," he replied mutinously. "And it's damned time you stopped using that honorific already."
"One last time then, Squalo-san, for old time's sake." That tone contained just the faintest note of regret, Squalo was pleased to note. Knowing the other wouldn't mind, he bumped their hips together until their bodies were pressed snugly together. Yamamoto was a physical person, he'd understand if he wanted the moment to last a little longer.
He nudged the hand again, and it wriggled its fingers back playfully. "You like my hair or something? You kept grabbing it."
"Yes," came the unhesitating answer. And then, with an earnest face, Yamamoto added, "I like all of you, Squalo."
He couldn't help but blink at that, hand frozen where it was massaging the other's overworked thigh muscles. And then, slowly, he relaxed and smiled back. It was just like Yamamoto to say those kinds of uncomfortably true, yet infinitely reassuring things. Even if he didn't mean for this to ever happen, Yamamoto always did know what was best for the people he loved - even push them towards the right mind-set at the sacrifice of his own body. Now he could count himself as one of these loved ones, one of the closest, one of the most thought about.
His heart twinged just the barest bit at that thought. But it smoothed itself out upon hearing Yamamoto prattle on about inconsequential things, the Family and the cellphone and about how the water dripping made weird noises against the wall. He'd just discovered there was an added meaning to his life, after all. Nothing could spoil his mood right now, not even -
- the door to the shower room literally burst open in a miniature explosion of dynamite and smoke. The two of them jumped, Squalo groping for a sword that simply wasn't there, but after a moment of feeling Yamamoto relax next to him, he confusedly did the same. In the explosion's gaping wake stood Gokudera Hayato, face red with exertion, shoulders heaving from running down seven flights of stairs. As the two of them watched, he tore off the earpiece on his ear and shoved it hastily into his pocket.
"I have no fucking clue what the two of you are doing on the floor," he spat out like a rotten apple, "but you'd better come with me right now." He glared and pointed unshakingly to Yamamoto, who laughed and wrapped his towel back around his waist, and obediently preceded out of the room in front of his partner.
Afterwards, Squalo could have sworn the look Gokudera gave him was a little longer and keener than what he was used to. The Storm Guardian didn't have anything to do with an ex-Rain Guardian nominee, after all. But Squalo was usually right about these things, and he always felt that glare in itself was suspicious - but the weird part was that even drunk out of his wits, Gokudera always claimed he was looking at Squalo's hair.
Not that Yamamoto ever complained about it.
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Now that wasn't so hard, was it? <----is telling this to myself.
Series: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 398059
Rating: NC-17 *evil giggle*
Notes: dedicated to festivewind (again?!), for saying something a long time ago about wanting to see 3980 with Yamamoto on top. Thanks to swn_2gthr_wrng for her beta!
C. Family Matters
They were riding in the car when the question came.
Gokudera tensed at the first touch of fingers in his hair, but half-relaxed when he realized who it was. Everybody else in the backseat was asleep, after all - the 10th and his two sons, curled up like a family of black-and-brown puppies. The only other one who was still awake was Yamamoto in the passenger seat, currently twisting Gokudera's longish silver hair through his fingers with a curious look on his face.
"Gokudera," he wondered aloud, "why did you decide to grow out your hair?"
He counted to ten until the sudden spur of memories subsided. Yamamoto waited patiently for an answer - he could just see the confused look on the other's face - and finally he found the strength able to mutter, eternally embarrassed, "None of your business, idiot. What is this, fifty questions?"
Thankfully, Yamamoto left it at that.
---------
"Good work," he muttered under his breath, but the girl stood up and saluted as if she'd been electrocuted. Around the two of them, thirty TV screens flashed various viewpoints of the mansion from every possible angle every nine seconds. Gokudera had meticulously programmed it that way after taking into account the glaring impossibility of watching close to a hundred screens at once, coupled with the fact that humans just could not forgo the need to blink once in a while. He had briefly commented on the idea of either giving all the security guards pieces of wood to prop up their eyes with and plenty of eyedrops or having all the security cameras routed as a 20-by-10 screensaver to his computer - but judging by the look on the 10th's face after he said it, he took that as a No.
He puffed grumpily around his cigarette. In response the security girl trembled in her salute. He'd rather thought it was a good idea himself, other people's privacy be damned.
Waving his hand aside to the girl who exited with all possible haste for her overdue lunch at the kitchens, he settled himself into the lone swivel chair in the middle of the room and peered up at the screens. Most of them showed no people at all, giving shots of the perimeter gardens from the cameras cleverly hidden in the mansion's walls. The second to the right on the top showed the 10th for a couple of seconds; within a couple of keystrokes, Gokudera had rerouted the rest of the cycle to the remaining twenty-nine screens to switch at a slightly accelerated rate, keeping that one on the Vongola's new boss. To his approval, the 10th seemed to be working hard, bent over his desk as he was, reading what was probably the Chiavarone's new proposal on titanium-plated communicators in the shape of silver teeth that they might sell to the American government once R&D got their act together. Halfway through, the 10th audibly gave a sigh, leaned back, and self-massaged his tense shoulders. The clarity of the picture was so precise Gokudera could have counted the hairs on the nape of his neck.
Nothing but the best for the family, after all.
Tearing his eyes away from the screen with the 10th, he surveyed the rest of the displays with growing boredom. Haru and Kyoko were in the kitchen cooking something; his sister was (thankfully) smoke-screened by what seemed to be some exploding equipment in the training room (though that might also have to do with the new concoction she'd come up with last week: dynamite cakes); Lambo and I-Pin were "discussing homework" over a game of cards in the library. Everybody else was off on assignments - all was as it should be.
A screen flickered right in front of him to the circuit around the underground dojo. It showed the top level first, where Gokudera caught a glimpse of two bodies under the concrete replica of the Rain Rings stage, flickering into vision just for a second before disappearing behind the curtain of the waterfall. Once it shifted to the second level he stopped that screen too, now clearly able to see the forms of two swordsmen duking it out in their daily practice round under the spray of the leaking floor above. A few more keystrokes recalibrated the neighboring screens to the rest of the cameras to that room, showing various views of Yamamoto and Squalo's backs. As usual Yamamoto was panting this late into the sparring session, but Squalo was only breathing lightly. Sweat or water glittered in their hair, over their faces and dotted their clothes.
Gokudera turned the volume up on his headset. It seemed there was some entertainment to be had after all.
"Had enough yet, katana-brat?" Squalo's voice was rough and metallic through the speakers.
Yamamoto lunged in reply. Gokudera knew that look - it was the one that said I'll have your head or die trying - and it had thankfully never been aimed at him. These two had no other possible competition in the entire Family, or maybe even all of the world; their swordsmanship was just too good. As far as they knew, the only possible challenge was already standing in front of them.
The half-Italian suppressed the urge to hmph! like a child at the thought of one particular swordsman. They worked well enough as a team, Yamamoto and him. He took care of the surveillance, incoming enemies, and all possible wrinkles in the plan; the other did everything close-up or near impossible in terms of physical ability, and all negotiations. Gokudera tended to snarl a price and chew the other side out when they didn't agree; Yamamoto, on the other hand, knew what compromise consisted of.
And thankfully so, the 10th had remarked on more than one occasion. Which meant Yamamoto just worked harder at it. Gokudera had the vague idea that he was the guinea pig and sounding board for these abilities; he always seemed to find himself in some sort of "If you do this I'll do that" situation with his partner. If you bring me coffee I'll buy you lunch. If you finish that report I'll pick up the kids from school.
If you would stop denying to yourself what he's offering, you might not be so lonely at night.
Gokudera hastily pulled at his customary mug of caffeinated bliss.
Continuing delicately on his previous vein of thought, it appeared as though Yamamoto didn't seem to try very hard when he was walking that dubiously invisible middle line. The man seemed to consistently startle everybody he met with his sudden laughter. It was exactly that good humor that salvaged most of the deals Gokudera failed to make. Every time he thought he was done with being annoyed about his own inability, Yamamoto would pull off another spectacular save and in turn Gokudera would storm around the mansion, irritated as hell and snapping at everyone who might have the misfortune to creep into the same vicinity as him. Yamamoto's ability did, however, get the job done (that remarkable talent to crawl ever-so-sneakily under people's skin until BAM! they couldn't refuse him anymore).
He'd seen it happen, quite literally, to himself. That infectious invincible feeling, that there was always a path to be had if only you just looked. That things would turn out alright, no matter how grim it looked now. Yamamoto just had the will and the stupidity to keep believing that when nothing was turning out the way Gokudera'd expected - and he had to admit, usually the other was right. Things always sorted themselves out in the end, for better or for worse. Deals, traitors, failed relationships - life went on, and Gokudera watched his partner laugh through it all.
Sometimes he couldn't suppress a chuckle himself. The guy could just surprise him like that.
He checked the clock: it was running late for one of their sparring sessions, they'd usually ended twenty minutes ago. Of course, he'd also been sitting here like an idiot staring absently at them bat at each other with sharp pointy objects for a while now too. As they squared off on opposite sides of the room again, Gokudera leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the computer panel thoughtfully. Alright, so he wasn't being completely stupid and girly when he found himself ogling Yamamoto's water-soaked form. It was a very nice, very sleek form for such a tall guy, after all, and Gokudera had been trained from childhood to admire pretty things.
Apparently they'd both had enough, because they straightened at the same time, and then similarly cracked their necks in opposite directions. Yamamoto rolled his shoulder as his face relaxed back into that easy grin. It was returned in an equally white-toothed crescent as his sparring partner clapped him on the back, face turned downward from the camera. Gokudera felt a burst of irritation at the casual gesture despite his best efforts to fight it down. It twisted further when Yamamoto returned the camaraderie by bumping their shoulders together briefly. Squalo was the shorter one now, but he could still reach up and tousle the other's hair like old times; in response Yamamoto said something about the other taking care of his hair like a girl, and both laughed.
The exchange was completely natural and unstaged despite there being an undercurrent of rivalry buried beneath it all. Yet at every touch Gokudera found that knot in his chest twisting tighter and tighter, as if a hand was pushing a screw deeper into his chest. It was a disturbing feeling, especially coupled with the fact that he didn't particularly know why he was feeling it. That is, he wasn't sure why his socially-starved side was so fixated on Yamamoto when there were so many other fish in the sea. Fish with chests, even.
He forced himself to look at the other screens while the two swordsmen showered, still exchanging jokes about the state of family affairs. His earpiece crackled with their muffled laughter and the patter of water on the tiles. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he couldn't get the picture of Yamamoto naked under the spray out of his head. There'd been one time when he'd walked on the other while he was getting out of the shower in all of his tanned-skin glory, hair drooping cutely with unshaken drops. It was a beautiful sight, indeed, the exquisite lines of muscles stretched out in front of him, juxtaposed with the soft curve of a single-scarred jaw. Somehow he'd managed to calmly apologize for the intrusion and shut his eyes to the wet dream of so many female Family members. Half-heartedly he tried to justify his fixation with that image with the regretful lack of a camera to possibly capture the hearts and incomes of some fluttering teenage hearts, but even he had to admit the flimsiness of that argument when faced with the reality that he made more in one year than he could ever make his whole life as a photographer.
The shower switched off and he looked back quickly in relief and then horror as he averted his eyes again. His imagination was really quite worse, though - there he could see every drop that slid past the other's chest and hips. Fortunately he had their banter to focus on: something about the new cellphones being too "Gokudera-ized" for real-time use. Squalo was fully against, while Yamamoto was patiently biding his time before he could split the argument in his favor (it was a real disappointment, how he could see these traps being sprung on other people but never himself). The bomber was a little insulted, if not resigned; there were plenty of other people who'd complained about it, after all. Sure, he'd added a couple more programs and reconfigured most of the others, but he didn't think they were that complicated...
"Why issue them for everybody if nobody can use them?," Squalo muttered as he jammed his own device into his coat pocket.
Yamamoto shrugged. "To him these things are easy. It's not that hard to figure out if you know G-script -"
"That kooky alphabet he made when he was in high school?" Squalo snorted. "It works? I thought he programmed the mansion's AC on that alphabet too, and isn't that why every time Sawada touches it, it starts freaking out and makes this place an Arctic away from the Arctic Circle?"
The Japanese shrugged as he toweled himself down carelessly. "It's not that bad, really. Don't you just wrap your hair around your neck like a scarf anyway? It shouldn't be a problem for you."
"It's a security hazard!"
Yamamoto laughed, and the sound startled both watchers. "Is that because little Kyoko-chan yanked it last time?"
"Vuooooi!," the older swordsman snarled back. "Kyoko-chan is fine! And, I'm still not finished with that damned cellphone thing - the main problem is that nobody but him knows the damn G-script." The older swordsman's voice was muffled as he attempted to dry his hair one-handed. "It's like he's lording it above all of us that he made a language when he was fifteen and we didn't."
That wasn't really it, Gokudera reflected. It was just he felt less and less like dealing with idiots these days, and let his appliances do the talking for him. Plus, he usually didn't have to, if Yamamoto was around.
Yamamoto shrugged, and the movement rippled all the way down to the tiny piece of terry cloth around his waist. Gokudera hastily gulped some more coffee as his partner replied, "I know G-script."
Immediately he spat it back out. What? When???
"Tsuna and I figured it out when it became apparent he was going to write most of his secret messages in it. Took a couple of weeks to get everything, though - and the only reason we could figure it out was because we knew him so well, really." The Japanese took the towel away from the other swordsman and began to dry the hair more efficiently. "It was causing Tsuna some problems, not being able to read missives directly, so..."
"So you know it, eh? His own private language?"
"It's not impossible to figure out, it's just -"
"He didn't teach it to you?"
A pause. Gokudera couldn't see Yamamoto's face from any of the camera angles, but he knew that set of broad shoulders better than his own hand - and right now they were bunched halfway between defensive and escape. Gokudera felt a bit defensive himself; a long time ago he'd hated the other, but they'd come a long way since then. They were partners now, the best team in the Famiglia, sent on all the toughest missions. They'd found out a lot about their similarities and even more about their differences, and come to terms with all of them. He would even venture to say they were comfortably past just a working relationship and that it was a real synchrony that drove their work now.
He just...didn't like that someone else, some random third party, was pointing out that there was still a gap between where they were and where they might be. Especially because it wasn't professional to go beyond just being coworkers, no matter how lenient the 10th was about family relationships, as long as both sides were consensual and no bad blood was shed over it (read: nobody died from it). They were the right and left hands of the head of the Vongola family - if they didn't set a good example to the Famiglia, who would?
"Haha," Yamamoto suddenly laughed into the earpiece, bright and false, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Squalo turned to look at the other straight in the eye, and on the screen his face was sharp and perfectly serious. "I mean, you'd think he might give some sort of sign when you're trying so damn hard every day to make him notice you, idiot." The last word was said roughly affectionate and sympathetically. Gokudera realized that it was the same sort of tone that he used when he insulted his partner - and abruptly felt irritated that both of them were doing the same thing.
Yamamoto's cheery face dropped as Gokudera thought it only did for him and the 10th. "I...," and even without being there the bomber could hear the hesitancy pregnant in that one word, "you make it seem like I'm desperate..."
"You aren't?" Squalo always had the knack of saying the shrewdest things in the smallest number of words possible.
The Japanese shook his head. The corners of his lips were down-turned in a real, miserable expression Gokudera hadn't ever seen before. It rattled him with memories of the days before he met the 10th, dodging from brief shelter to shelter armed only with his hatred of the world. It made him want to do something crazy like shout something sappy about friendship over the PA system, or reformat all the cellphones he just handed out in Yamamoto's name.
"No," the other answered stubbornly and resignedly, "I can't afford to be desperate, I'd change partners before it ever got that bad."
Change...partners?
The idea slashed through Gokudera like lightning. Yamamoto...transferring out of their super-combination? Out of their coffee breaks spent flicking toothpicks at each other? Sleepless stakeouts where they sometimes shared scant memories of their mothers? Breathlessly narrow escapes that usually involved explosions and hilariously on-the-spot improvisation? Out of squishing together on tiny army cots, waking up in the hospital to find his partner holding his hand? Getting sick at the same time because they spent too much time together?
You mean, and here Gokudera felt his chest squeeze him breathless with pain, there's a chance that he would give all of this up?
"You won't tell him directly?"
This time Yamamoto shook his head with more conviction, but still with the foreign expression of long-buried hurt. "I've thought about this for a while...but in the end this is his decision," he murmured, face lowered towards the ground, shoulders as defeated as they'd ever been. "I can't force him," Yamamoto added in a whisper.
Well, Gokudera thought as he stood, the decision's been made. He was making for the door with his coat when the earpiece still in his ear crackled with Squalo's voice.
"Guess I'd better move before that, hmm?"
That part of Gokudera that was brimming full of determination to throw all caution to the winds and just kiss the damn guy abruptly drained with dread.
He rushed back to the screen - and just in time, because in the instant he had his back turned Squalo had Yamamoto pinned up against the wall. The Japanese looked startled but not frightened in the least as the other stroked his cheek mockingly with his one hand. Gokudera's hands tightened on the edge of the table as the older swordsman leaned in and touched their foreheads together, face morphing from ferociously playful to something...tentatively affectionate.
"Squalo-san?" His partner prompted with the air of someone who already knew the answer before the question was even asked.
"Just once," Squalo murmured, and there was the faintest, impossible hint of begging in that tone, because proud Superbi Squalo never begged for anything. "Just once, I'd like you pay the same kind of desperate attention to me, Yamamoto."
And then Gokudera was leaning forward with a million spiteful insults at the tip of his tongue because Squalo was kissing Yamamoto, his Yamamoto Takeshi, the one that wanted him out of all the nicer, worthier people in the world. Push him back! He screamed in his head. What are you waiting for! But as the seconds dragged on, Yamamoto didn't move, just quietly let the other touch his cheeks, his nose, his chin with brief touches of his mouth.
Then, in just a little movement out of the corner of the picture, Yamamoto's hand came up to tangle in Squalo's half-dried hair.
The other retreated, incredulous and speechless. Gokudera thought maybe the choked sound he heard came from the Varia swordsman...or maybe himself. As he watched, the two on the screen stared at each other for one long moment, Yamamoto perfectly still and sure, Squalo still with that rarely-seen hesitant look on his face. He shuffled backward a step, but the grip on his long hair made it clear Yamamoto wasn't going to let go any time soon. Finally, recovering from the awkwardness of their current position, the older swordsman put it bluntly, "You don't want to do this."
"What makes you think it's all about you?," Yamamoto countered. With a little jerk of his hand, Squalo was forced to step forward to their previous closeness, hips almost touching. "Maybe I'm tired of waiting. Maybe I think about you too, Squalo-san." He leaned forward and there was that touch that Gokudera had daydreamed about when Yamamoto was cutely asleep in the passenger seat, that closemouthed kiss that might be just friendly or might mean something more... a gesture so far on the other side of their sacred status quo it might as well as be deep space. He was frightened by his own burning desire to be Squalo right now. But Squalo might be even more frightened if he knew how much Gokudera wanted to tear him limb from limb and strap him to 300kg of explosives and send him into the sky like a Tanabata fireworks display.
But he couldn't tear himself away from the screen long enough to go seven floors below and slap some sense into both of them. All he could do was watch hopelessly as Squalo finally leaned forward, tracing Yamamoto's arm before settling apprehensively on his waist, as if it might be knocked away any second. But it wasn't; instead the Japanese wound both hands in Squalo's long hair and brought him forward until their thighs touched. Squalo tore himself away guiltily, face conflicted even as his good hand lightly squeezed the other's bare hip. Yamamoto squeezed his arm back.
"You love him though," Squalo bit down harshly on the words, "you're like a dog when it comes to him, you live to the exclusion of all else. You don't see anything but him - I know it because I'm the same." Savagely the older swordsman ranted on, face twisting with wretched misery, "I don't see anything but -"
Yamamoto kissed him. Gokudera imagined those lips on his, sucking at upper lip, then at his lower. The sounds Squalo were making were hushed and needy, swallowed up in the face of Yamamoto's determination. When their tongues clashed both moaned low in their throat, a sound that went straight to Gokudera's groin. It was hot, he had to admit - seeing their hands clutching at the other, bodies grinding so that their towels fell forgotten to the ground. He almost turned away then, seeing their fully exposed bodies without the covering of steam, but - he just couldn't take his eyes away from the way Yamamoto moved eagerly against the other, couldn't help but imagine the face framed with silver hair was his, and he was the one diving in for another deep kiss.
"I'm not finished," Squalo finally managed to gasp out, but it didn't seem like he could remember exactly what he hadn't finished.
Yamamoto closed his hand around both of them as an answer. The sound Squalo made then went straight to Gokudera's soul. It was the cry he would make if he knew he would never have the happiness he wanted. Maybe something paler, maybe something just as full of heart and meaning - but never the feeling of basking in the full light of Yamamoto's desire. Squalo would always have his friendship, a relationship that went deeper than regular coworker's camaraderie, but Yamamoto would never be full-heartedly devoted to him, belong to him as the other belonged to him. All he would have is more of Yamamoto's cheer, which he gave in spades to anyone, everyone he met, even if the underworlders he met weren't worth such good feelings.
But he did give too much, and that was why they were all where they were now, Gokudera reflected. One self-locked into the security room and two downstairs with regretful feelings all around. It would make a nice TV drama, really, if it wasn't so goddamn personal.
The earpiece crackled again: "Squalo-san?"
They were really locked into their embrace this time, legs tangled together as Yamamoto pushed Squalo to the edge and Squalo roughly pushed back. Yamamoto nuzzled the other's ear at the same time he squeezed the other's ass; in return Squalo banged his head hard against the other's shoulder, something between a sigh and a sob huffing from his lips. Gokudera could see it, Yamamoto was bringing all of his concentration forward towards finding out what made his sparring partner feel good. It was exactly that focused look on his face that made Gokudera cup the front of his pants in response.
"Katana brat," Squalo moaned, his one good hand gripping the other helplessly for balance. All of a sudden he lifted his face, and Gokudera could see the poisonous glare through that mane of long hair. But more than that, the helpless inability to refuse, to push back this advance, to be the better man in the situation, it all showed on Squalo's face, and that was what rocked Gokudera breathlessly in his seat. Squalo tried to stare down his partner, but it came out desperately instead, "Don't you dare pity me, don't you ever give up on him for me -"
Yamamoto kissed him sweetly. Tanned hands pushed Squalo's silver hair away from his face, tangling messily in the silver strands. Squalo's furious reluctance slowly gave way to Yamamoto's steady insistence, until they were again thrusting against each other like eager schoolboys, faces blissful as Yamamoto bumped the other's forehead with his own. "Squalo-san," he said, and his voice was husky and low, Gokudera leaned back and closed his eyes to listen, "you're all I'm looking at now."
Gokudera groaned in response, the lonely sound echoing in the room. Quickly he freed himself, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. Yamamoto stroked them together with a sure smile on his face, steady as summer rain. Gokudera imagined those long-fingered hands on him, that half-smirk on his face as his tanned body leaned all the way in, catching him unawares with his lips. And then Yamamoto was twisting his nipples until he gasped and thrust forward, begging for more. One smooth word from those lips sent him further into heady bliss, until all he could see was the pupils of Yamamoto's eyes, almost gold, bearing into him with a simple question.
Will you let me do it?
Once, he would have said no. This time, Squalo answered for both of them:
"Yes, you bastard," the older swordsman snarled, baring his throat to the other's tongue. Gokudera panted hoarsely as Yamamoto grinned wider against the smooth column of neck, wondering what it was that made this one so special. The same thing that Squalo saw in him, most likely - though Gokudera definitely had more to complain about at this point, as he definitely wasn't in Squalo's fortunate shoes at the moment. Maybe it was because Yamamoto gave so much every day, in such obvious ways - bringing coffee, playing with the kids, staying up late to keep others company through the long hours, even simply barking that raucous laugh of his - that the condemned who'd grown up in sin felt they had to give something back. Something that Yamamoto wanted - and he didn't often have any wishes.
Which was why nobody ever hesitated when presented with the chance to return the favor. Plus, it was as sure as Murphy's Law that What Yamamoto Wants, Yamamoto Gets.
In one swift move Squalo was against the wall now, trapped where Yamamoto gripped his buttocks in one hand and wrenched back his head by his hair in the other. The older swordsman was making half-growling, half-whining sounds at not being able to see the other where he was, nipping lightly at Squalo's sides. Suddenly he yelped and arched, whether in pain or in pleasure, Gokudera wasn't sure. What he did spy was the finger that'd intruded in Squalo's ass, pushing deeper until Squalo fairly screamed at the sensation.
"No," he sobbed, but his eyes were dry, unseeing with lust, "you don't want -"
Yamamoto added another finger. This time Squalo keened, then yanked down harshly on the sound until he was just hissing harshly against the other's shoulder. The Japanese worked methodically until Squalo's breath shuddered not from the discomfort, but from the incredible reality of what was going to happen. Then he said softly, "This might work better if you turned around."
"Stop with your fucking wimpy suggestions and get on with it already," came the inevitable answer.
Yamamoto tilted the other's chin to look into Squalo's face one last time, just to make sure - as if this could be stopped right now - and then gently pressed his lips to the other's mouth, almost shyly. The kiss quickly evolved into something deeper involving them being bodily locked together, Yamamoto slowly lifting the other's thigh into position, fingers digging into his pale skin. Squalo braced himself against the wall, back squeaking against the white tiles, hair strung everywhere like spider's silk. They shared breath, eyes hooked together, blue to gold as they panted, so hot already yet still rearing for more -
Yamamoto shifted into position as if he'd done it all his life, and slid in with one smooth movement.
On the screen, Gokudera could see Squalo's eyes shut briefly in pain. Yet as Yamamoto waited patiently for the other to recover, legs barely trembling with the weight of another body, slowly Squalo blinked back into awareness. He squeezed the other's shoulder with his left hand, the stump of his right curled loosely around the Japanese's neck. Yamamoto took that as a sign and hesitantly began to move, mouth open and huffing heatedly with every thrust as Squalo twitched and clenched around him.
Gradually the younger swordsman settled into a rhythm, digging deep into the other as they balanced precariously against the wall. Squalo swallowed his sounds the best he could, head tilted back as the other worked his way up to a mind-blowing climax for the both of them. Like always, Yamamoto showed his abilities to adapt quickly and favorably to any situation; within the first few minutes he was plowing into the other's sweet spot without fail, mouth latched onto one nipple. The older swordsman seemed at a loss whether to just give it all up and scream his heart out, or drag the other's mouth back up to his face. As a compromise, he raked his fingers sharply down the other's back instead.
Yamamoto arched at the touch, abruptly biting down on the other's chest in return. Then, it seemed, in apology for everything he hadn't been and could never be, he devotedly sucked at the same spot until redness remained like a watercolor rose against Squalo's pale skin. The location was not lost on the older one, and briefly he let go of his death grip on the other's shoulder to examine it. It would fade, unlike the multitude of bullet and knife wounds he'd accumulated over the years - but the memory of it there like a stain over his heart, would remain with him for the rest of his life.
"Squalo-san," the other drew his attention back to those gold eyes, fixed on him.
In some ways he was grateful. In other ways, he felt even more doomed and wretchedly alone than ever.
They kissed, crescendo-ing back to their previous speed, and then further. Yamamoto let loose a groan, forehead against the spot he'd lavished a hickey on, and the sound traveled all the way down to Squalo's toes. His whole body seized as the younger swordsman drove in without mercy. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled their ears as they tumbled headfirst towards the end of this desperate dance, too far frustrated to hold back for too long -
- then Yamamoto was crying out his name, and he too was gone as if a million pounds of dynamite had just blown him back a hundred feet, the feeling was just too primeval, too unrestrained to possibly be human. On top of it all was the awareness that it was Yamamoto, that thrice-damned katana brat he'd underestimated in what seemed like a million years ago, that sent him rocking over the edge into hysterical despair. After all, this was a one time thing, this little travesty. It hadn't even been twenty minutes of bliss - yet while it was happening he'd felt as if it'd gone on forever.
But as he looked into Yamamoto's glazed-over, post-coital smile, he realized something had changed: that pit that'd resided for so long in his stomach was gone. He knew that it wasn't empty and one-sided now. Everything Yamamoto had done just proved that there was plenty of passion for him, even the kind he'd wanted since before the kid'd become of age. He knew what the other was saying with this, he could hear it loud and clear from watching his back even while he was watching someone else's: It wasn't meaningless that you fell in love with me.
And when you start to lose sight of yourself, at least remember this.
Yamamoto was saying this, surer than words.
As they sank down to the floor, completely exhausted, Squalo noticed the Japanese had extricated himself carefully from everything except for his hands, which were still wrapped securely in his long hair. As he looked at them with idle fascination - they were longer, tapered, and tanner against his white shoulder, he'd always hated looking like such a fucking girl when he was younger, which was probably why he tore his way out of that stereotype at an early age - Yamamoto's face slowly eased into his customary grin, edges softened by the look in his eyes, which were infinitely apologetic. "Squalo-san," he murmured, "you alright?"
The older swordsman gave a scoff and nudged his nose comfortably against the back of the other's hand. "Not that much older than you, brat," he replied mutinously. "And it's damned time you stopped using that honorific already."
"One last time then, Squalo-san, for old time's sake." That tone contained just the faintest note of regret, Squalo was pleased to note. Knowing the other wouldn't mind, he bumped their hips together until their bodies were pressed snugly together. Yamamoto was a physical person, he'd understand if he wanted the moment to last a little longer.
He nudged the hand again, and it wriggled its fingers back playfully. "You like my hair or something? You kept grabbing it."
"Yes," came the unhesitating answer. And then, with an earnest face, Yamamoto added, "I like all of you, Squalo."
He couldn't help but blink at that, hand frozen where it was massaging the other's overworked thigh muscles. And then, slowly, he relaxed and smiled back. It was just like Yamamoto to say those kinds of uncomfortably true, yet infinitely reassuring things. Even if he didn't mean for this to ever happen, Yamamoto always did know what was best for the people he loved - even push them towards the right mind-set at the sacrifice of his own body. Now he could count himself as one of these loved ones, one of the closest, one of the most thought about.
His heart twinged just the barest bit at that thought. But it smoothed itself out upon hearing Yamamoto prattle on about inconsequential things, the Family and the cellphone and about how the water dripping made weird noises against the wall. He'd just discovered there was an added meaning to his life, after all. Nothing could spoil his mood right now, not even -
- the door to the shower room literally burst open in a miniature explosion of dynamite and smoke. The two of them jumped, Squalo groping for a sword that simply wasn't there, but after a moment of feeling Yamamoto relax next to him, he confusedly did the same. In the explosion's gaping wake stood Gokudera Hayato, face red with exertion, shoulders heaving from running down seven flights of stairs. As the two of them watched, he tore off the earpiece on his ear and shoved it hastily into his pocket.
"I have no fucking clue what the two of you are doing on the floor," he spat out like a rotten apple, "but you'd better come with me right now." He glared and pointed unshakingly to Yamamoto, who laughed and wrapped his towel back around his waist, and obediently preceded out of the room in front of his partner.
Afterwards, Squalo could have sworn the look Gokudera gave him was a little longer and keener than what he was used to. The Storm Guardian didn't have anything to do with an ex-Rain Guardian nominee, after all. But Squalo was usually right about these things, and he always felt that glare in itself was suspicious - but the weird part was that even drunk out of his wits, Gokudera always claimed he was looking at Squalo's hair.
Not that Yamamoto ever complained about it.
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Now that wasn't so hard, was it? <----is telling this to myself.