[KHR fanfic] Games
Title: Games
Summary: Because everything is a game to Yamamoto.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wasn't planning on writing angst but somehow this came to me when I was making my bed this morning and listening to Kelly Clarkson... talk about extreme randomness.
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn doesn't belong to me.
There is a game between you and him.
You always think of it like baseball -- it's either hit or miss; and every time you miss, it's a feeling like your world has frozen in place except for your heart beating fast from adrenaline and your blood pumping loud with disappointment.
Like that time, when you see him lying on the hospital bed, bandaged up so bad you can't even see skin, and suddenly you feel like unwrapping those feelings you've suppressed all these years; those should-haves and should-dos come flashing in front of your eyes even though you aren't the one who almost died.
So you approach him with your mouth full of too many words about to tumble out in a mess because you didn't have time to practice them in front of a mirror-- only, turns out you didn't have to; he's already one step ahead of you.
"Don't say it, idiot." He shuts you up with a snarl, glaring into your eyes like he knows what you're going to say, and it's impressive the way he can manage so much menace when he can't even move.
Just like that, he ends the game before you've even entered the batting cage.
Or so you think, until half a year later, on a Thursday afternoon, when he's so angry at you for calling everything a game that he raises a hand at you, and you think he's about to punch -- close your eyes and expect the fist to hit -- but instead you feel fingers grab at your shirt, the pressure digging into skin beneath, and there's teeth biting at your lower lip.
It makes you yelp like a little girl, all helpless and probably more than a little shocked because aren't you always the one who initiates the kiss in your fantasies? Because doesn't this only happen in your dreams?
Reality slams you against the school fence and the kiss hurts, and then you're not even sure you can call this a kiss, especially when you look into the mirror after you get home later to see your lips split and mouth bleeding. It makes you wonder if you haven't been hit in the face after all.
And much too soon, you become used to those kisses that taste like blood, hugs that leave bruises; it's always one hit forward and one step back, so you find yourself standing in the same place for far too long, wondering if this game will ever continue forward.
Then one day--
"Yamamoto." He moans against your skin as you kiss down his neck, hands going under his shirt and you think: this is it -- you've finally gotten a winning hit after all those words that couldn't be said, all those kisses that weren't really kisses.
As you zoom past the bases -- second, third... homerun, you think that it has taken a lot of battered knees, bruised chins and bloody lips, but this is it.
It's only later, when he puts on his clothes right after and leaves you cold in bed alone without a backward glance that you think, Did I really go anywhere?
"Nothing happened," he says the next day as he walks past you.
You want to believe him, want to punch him in the face, want to push him against the wall and bruise his lips with a kiss and tell him, "Something did happen," but all you do is freeze in place. Just like always. Nothing has changed.
You realize then, that it doesn't matter how far you run or how many hits you get, because this isn't baseball. There are no bases, no homeruns -- you can't even see where the goal is.
You've just been running in circles by yourself in the dark all this time, going about it all wrong. Or, maybe, it's been all wrong since that first time he smiles at you and the wind sweeps his hair back like some corny moment in a romance film-- and, like an idiot fascinated by the spark of a bomb, you're pulled into it. You fall for it.
And you keep falling, with no way of getting back up, because you understand all too well now: this is a game you couldn't have won since the start.
Summary: Because everything is a game to Yamamoto.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wasn't planning on writing angst but somehow this came to me when I was making my bed this morning and listening to Kelly Clarkson... talk about extreme randomness.
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn doesn't belong to me.
There is a game between you and him.
You always think of it like baseball -- it's either hit or miss; and every time you miss, it's a feeling like your world has frozen in place except for your heart beating fast from adrenaline and your blood pumping loud with disappointment.
Like that time, when you see him lying on the hospital bed, bandaged up so bad you can't even see skin, and suddenly you feel like unwrapping those feelings you've suppressed all these years; those should-haves and should-dos come flashing in front of your eyes even though you aren't the one who almost died.
So you approach him with your mouth full of too many words about to tumble out in a mess because you didn't have time to practice them in front of a mirror-- only, turns out you didn't have to; he's already one step ahead of you.
"Don't say it, idiot." He shuts you up with a snarl, glaring into your eyes like he knows what you're going to say, and it's impressive the way he can manage so much menace when he can't even move.
Just like that, he ends the game before you've even entered the batting cage.
Or so you think, until half a year later, on a Thursday afternoon, when he's so angry at you for calling everything a game that he raises a hand at you, and you think he's about to punch -- close your eyes and expect the fist to hit -- but instead you feel fingers grab at your shirt, the pressure digging into skin beneath, and there's teeth biting at your lower lip.
It makes you yelp like a little girl, all helpless and probably more than a little shocked because aren't you always the one who initiates the kiss in your fantasies? Because doesn't this only happen in your dreams?
Reality slams you against the school fence and the kiss hurts, and then you're not even sure you can call this a kiss, especially when you look into the mirror after you get home later to see your lips split and mouth bleeding. It makes you wonder if you haven't been hit in the face after all.
And much too soon, you become used to those kisses that taste like blood, hugs that leave bruises; it's always one hit forward and one step back, so you find yourself standing in the same place for far too long, wondering if this game will ever continue forward.
Then one day--
"Yamamoto." He moans against your skin as you kiss down his neck, hands going under his shirt and you think: this is it -- you've finally gotten a winning hit after all those words that couldn't be said, all those kisses that weren't really kisses.
As you zoom past the bases -- second, third... homerun, you think that it has taken a lot of battered knees, bruised chins and bloody lips, but this is it.
It's only later, when he puts on his clothes right after and leaves you cold in bed alone without a backward glance that you think, Did I really go anywhere?
"Nothing happened," he says the next day as he walks past you.
You want to believe him, want to punch him in the face, want to push him against the wall and bruise his lips with a kiss and tell him, "Something did happen," but all you do is freeze in place. Just like always. Nothing has changed.
You realize then, that it doesn't matter how far you run or how many hits you get, because this isn't baseball. There are no bases, no homeruns -- you can't even see where the goal is.
You've just been running in circles by yourself in the dark all this time, going about it all wrong. Or, maybe, it's been all wrong since that first time he smiles at you and the wind sweeps his hair back like some corny moment in a romance film-- and, like an idiot fascinated by the spark of a bomb, you're pulled into it. You fall for it.
And you keep falling, with no way of getting back up, because you understand all too well now: this is a game you couldn't have won since the start.