un regalo per dynastic
Good Morning, Sunshine...
by ? // for dynastic
characters/pairings: YamaGoku, onesided GokuTsuna, vague YamaHaru
rating: R
warnings: sexual situations, language
wordcount: 2122
summary: How Yamamoto wakes himself up in the mornings when baseball season is over, how Gokudera wakes him up every morning after they go underground.
notes: The humor is a little more subtle than I would have liked, going into this, but I think most of it can be put on Yamamoto’s character.
When baseball season is over - though Yamamoto can argue that baseball season is never over, he lets himself sleep in a little. Once or twice, he wakes up too late and ends up faltering in smiles as the jogs to school. So he writes himself a note.
Usually it’s on lined paper, and it’s folded in half over his alarm clock.
The funny thing is, they are all from Gokudera.
Well, not in Gokudera’s handwriting - calculated explosives of ink in a scrawl over blue lines - and certainly not from Gokudera himself. But Yamamoto writes them as though he is Gokudera, because the thought seems to motivate him.
Wake up, baseball idiot,
they begin. Wake up and get your sorry ass to school because I’ll never forgive you if something happens to the Tenth and you could have prevented it if you weren’t snoring away dreaming that stupid dream where you win the championship or whatever. Oh, and I’m probably going to glare at you all day and even insult you, but I don’t mean it. So wake up or else you’ll miss it all.
The first time Gokudera sees Tsuna want to kiss Sasagawa’s sister, Yamamoto is watching, too. He’s not laughing in that annoying way that he does because there is a real shadow of stricken guilt on Gokudera’s face as he watches their boss stumble and blush and look at the girl in the way that suggests he isn’t giving that feeling up for rings or bullets or blood. Kyoko, they all know, represents what Tsuna can no longer have. A normal life. Maybe they’re waiting for him to realize that and move on. Maybe Tsuna’s going to surprise them all like he always does and fight for her anyway.
Gokudera turns to look at Yamamoto, and he glares. “What the fuck are you staring at, baseball idiot?” he growls. “Give the boss some goddanm privacy.”
He follows Gokudera, the route they take to escort Tsuna back home. In less than a minute Tsuna is between them, face flushed with anxiousness ebbing away and a hand running nervously through the hair at the back of his head. Yamamoto is vaguely aware that he’s trying to strike up a conversation between Gokudera and himself, as though he feels there’s a tension between them.
Yamamoto is quite sure there is, but it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes what that tension is.
He wants to kiss Gokudera, too.
It’s a strange sort of feeling because he knows the Japanese culture isn’t exactly open to the idea of that sort of intimacy. In America, he knows, kissing is not as taboo, especially in public. He’s sure that in Europe it’s the same way. And since Gokudera is part Italian, it should be fine. But that opens up another avenue. Yamamoto has never kissed anyone like that. Gokudera probably has. It makes him frown slightly, and as he writes out his morning letter in Gokudera’s voice, he adds a last line as an afterthought:
Ask me, if the stupid thing means that much to you.
So he does.
Gokudera looks taken aback, somehow, and in a second he recovers.
“The fuck do you care?” he says, and goes back to watching Tsuna watch Kyoko.
“I just wondered,” Yamamoto replies cheerfully, and it’s a real lie, the way he smiles like the idiot Gokudera calls him for, and Yamamoto has that feeling that he has every now and then that he’s not pretending, none of this is a game. Baseball is a game. But then again, baseball is Yamamoto’s oxygen, and that is no game. It’s serious.
So he asks again, because clearly Gokudera was avoiding the question, and he must have hit a chord somewhere because Gokudera rounds on him and sputters something in what must be Italian and walks off, casting a heated glance backward and a muttered, “Asshole” that makes Yamamoto want to laugh.
He asks again.
Not the next day and not a week later. Sometime later, though. Gokudera pointedly avoids the question each time or mutters something about explosives finding their way to a place Yamamoto would find uncomfortable.
Yamamoto does laugh then, and for the first time since... well, the first time, asks a second time in a raw. Gokudera glares at him and says “It really isn’t any of your fucking business,” but Yamamoto isn’t convinced because it suddenly is his business.
Gokudera wants to kiss him, too.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Or maybe he does.
And for some reason, that becomes the subject of the next morning letter. And the one after, until Yamamoto is convinced that Gokudera is tired of denying it to himself.
On that day he arranged for Tsuna to walk Kyoko home. The poor boy is stuttering a little as they head off, but as they cross the street his shoulders relax and the girl smiles.
When they are out of sight he turns to see Gokudera waiting for him.
“Are we going or not?” he nearly barks, and Yamamoto smiles. It’s not like Kyoko’s smile but at the same time it is and he puts one hand on Gokudera’s shoulder and pins him to the stone wall outside the school and leans in.
Gokudera has a look on his face that clearly says even if he wants to permit this - and he does - he’s probably going to pull some dynamite from somewhere. And he does, a fistful of it two seconds too late as Yamamoto lightly presses his lips to Gokudera’s, trying not to be overwhelmed by the smoky exhale and by Gokudera’s eyes. The dynamite drops to the ground in a messy scatter, not a stick of it ignited. Yamamoto steps back, and suddenly Gokudera is pouding his fists into the wall behind him, muttering in Italian and then glaring at him. “You lousy fucker, that was my first - “ and he doesn’t get the rest out because he figures it’s a pretty good time to storm off and call “Asshole!” over his shoulder as he goes.
He doesn’t, however, tell Yamamoto not to try again.
Yamamoto wraps his arms around a retreating Gokudera every time, after every chaste kiss. Gokudera always stiffens at the contact, but he never pulls away immediately.
The morning letters become much more complicated.
And then, Yamamoto wakes up to an email message on his phone that reads simply: ”Wake up and get to school, you asshole.”
He gets to the point where he can make Gokudera gasp for breath after a long moment of tangled breath and the moderate pressure of his lips moving against the other’s. He gets to like that sound, and he likes it even more when Gokudera’s hands flinch away because he know’s that his cue to break the intimacy, deftly knocking Gokudera’s wrist aside so that the little explosions occur a safe distance away. The dynamite concealed up his sleeves lets Yamamoto subtly know that Gokudera likes it too much.
Wake up, baseball idiot,
the messages begin, and this time they are in neat round characters on the small screen of his phone, and he runs to the spot where he usually encounters Gokudera in the mornings before they head past Tsuna’s house to escort him to school.
“You’re a moron,” Gokudera says as he crushes his cigarette into the cement, leans heavily against a chain link fence and waits for Yamamoto to kiss him.
And then his father dies.
Somehow, Yamamoto is suddenly alone, in a suit, with a katana over his shoulder and a few scars. Things change, but it’s Gokudera leaning forward to initiate a kiss that really gets him. He feels almost as though he might want to cry. For his father. But he knows that Gokudera will be angry over that.
“Your ass could have got killed,” Gokudera starts.
“Worrying about me,” Yamamoto replies, not a question.
Gokudera scoffs. “I’d never forgive your sorry ass if something happened to the Tenth that you could have prevented...” he mutters. With that burning a memory from ten years ago, he shifts, changing everything with a simple touch.
Not that Yamamoto hasn’t thought of touching.
He knows how to touch himself, and he remembers the period in his life maybe eight years ago when Gokudera tried to ignore him and the kissing and the dynamite falling to the ground and even blocked Yamamoto’s phone messages. He remembers touching himself and thinking about Haru as he did it, because she was nice and she would be the type to smile at him as her hands pressed into him and stroked just so. More often than not her face turned into Gokudera’s.
Gokudera is glaring at him, and Yamamoto feels like maybe this was how it was that first time they kissed. Maybe.
“You,” Gokudera says, and it’s as much a command as it is an insult or anything else, and Yamamoto remembers the day he woke up to
”Just kiss me again, idiot.”
and all the kisses after that, all of them ones he started, until this one.
Gokudera’s hands are rough, as he expected, undoing the buttons of the dress shirt with calculated haste. “You can undress me, too, you asshole,” he hisses. Yamamoto actually smiles at that and complies at a much more measured pace, almost laughing when Gokudera pushes him down onto the bottom bunk of the beds they sleep in during high alerts.
Gokudera gets impatient, and he starts to shed his own clothes rapidly, glaring at him and saying things in Italian that Yamamoto translated loosely to mean things Gokudera wants out of him within the next few minutes. He grasps Yamamoto’s shoulders after fumbling with his belt for a long minute and initiates another kiss, fingers running through the short black hair shot through with sweat. He’d been running from some Black Spell, and it had been murder to throw them off a trail that could have led them to the base. So this is his reward.
Gokudera’s skin is paler than his, flushed angrily red with scars under his shirt. For all that he’s a mid to long range fighter, he takes a beating every time.
“Can I touch you?”
Gokudera makes a noise that is half disgust and takes advantage of his leverage over Yamamoto, shoving a knee between his legs and trusting him with more weight. Yamamoto takes it as an invitation to spread his legs and grind lightly against him. Gokudera shudders and presses down further. By now Yamamoto decides to stop counting how many kisses the other starts and just goes, enjoying the feel of Gokudera’s tense breathing as he runs his hands down his back, the urgency at which Gokudera increases the friction of his knee into the fork of Yamamoto’s legs.
Yamamoto wants to laugh again because he knows for certain that neither of them know what they’re doing. They’ve never held each other this close. Clothing was never removed.
Gokudera’s fingers pause at Yamamoto’s belt buckle.
“You’d better not call my name like a woman, you idiot,” he says, tongue darting out to moisten the cupid’s bow of his lip. Yamamoto hesitates. He can’t guarantee that he won’t. But he relaxes in that way that puts an annoyed sort of scowl on Gokudera’s face, watches him push back a strand of hair and then grasp the buckle, tearing it open.
He’s only ever touched himself before, so Gokudera’s fingers, coarse from mixing dry chemicals, touch the base of his arousal, he shifts in a mildly violent reflex. Gokudera pins him down again and exhales sharply, folding his hand around the warm shaft, meets Yamamoto’s eyes.
When Yamamoto wakes up, he forgets what time he’s in because it feels as though he should be reaching for his alarm clock, two or three days after baseball season. There should be a note. Not from Gokudera, but written in his voice.
Instead there is a soft and alien rustle of sheets and thick wool blanket, and rough hands working their way in patterns up his thigh. Gokudera’s cheek is pressed to his abdomen, and when Yamamoto’s eyes open and adjust to the dim light, the halo of pale silvery hair moves, the rough hands pressing his legs down evenly. Gokudera mutter something that sounds like
”Wake up, baseball idiot,”
in a soft growl, and Yamamoto watches, transfixed, as Gokudera’s mouth lowers, warmth spreading over him, his pubic hairs bristling. Gokudera’s tongue stokes his length once, twice, and then Gokudera’s eyes close as he seems to swallow the entire length, his chin brushing the sensitive flesh bulging under the base of Yamamoto’s arousal.
He decides that he prefers this sort of motivation to the letters.
by ? // for dynastic
characters/pairings: YamaGoku, onesided GokuTsuna, vague YamaHaru
rating: R
warnings: sexual situations, language
wordcount: 2122
summary: How Yamamoto wakes himself up in the mornings when baseball season is over, how Gokudera wakes him up every morning after they go underground.
notes: The humor is a little more subtle than I would have liked, going into this, but I think most of it can be put on Yamamoto’s character.
When baseball season is over - though Yamamoto can argue that baseball season is never over, he lets himself sleep in a little. Once or twice, he wakes up too late and ends up faltering in smiles as the jogs to school. So he writes himself a note.
Usually it’s on lined paper, and it’s folded in half over his alarm clock.
The funny thing is, they are all from Gokudera.
Well, not in Gokudera’s handwriting - calculated explosives of ink in a scrawl over blue lines - and certainly not from Gokudera himself. But Yamamoto writes them as though he is Gokudera, because the thought seems to motivate him.
Wake up, baseball idiot,
they begin. Wake up and get your sorry ass to school because I’ll never forgive you if something happens to the Tenth and you could have prevented it if you weren’t snoring away dreaming that stupid dream where you win the championship or whatever. Oh, and I’m probably going to glare at you all day and even insult you, but I don’t mean it. So wake up or else you’ll miss it all.
The first time Gokudera sees Tsuna want to kiss Sasagawa’s sister, Yamamoto is watching, too. He’s not laughing in that annoying way that he does because there is a real shadow of stricken guilt on Gokudera’s face as he watches their boss stumble and blush and look at the girl in the way that suggests he isn’t giving that feeling up for rings or bullets or blood. Kyoko, they all know, represents what Tsuna can no longer have. A normal life. Maybe they’re waiting for him to realize that and move on. Maybe Tsuna’s going to surprise them all like he always does and fight for her anyway.
Gokudera turns to look at Yamamoto, and he glares. “What the fuck are you staring at, baseball idiot?” he growls. “Give the boss some goddanm privacy.”
He follows Gokudera, the route they take to escort Tsuna back home. In less than a minute Tsuna is between them, face flushed with anxiousness ebbing away and a hand running nervously through the hair at the back of his head. Yamamoto is vaguely aware that he’s trying to strike up a conversation between Gokudera and himself, as though he feels there’s a tension between them.
Yamamoto is quite sure there is, but it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes what that tension is.
He wants to kiss Gokudera, too.
It’s a strange sort of feeling because he knows the Japanese culture isn’t exactly open to the idea of that sort of intimacy. In America, he knows, kissing is not as taboo, especially in public. He’s sure that in Europe it’s the same way. And since Gokudera is part Italian, it should be fine. But that opens up another avenue. Yamamoto has never kissed anyone like that. Gokudera probably has. It makes him frown slightly, and as he writes out his morning letter in Gokudera’s voice, he adds a last line as an afterthought:
Ask me, if the stupid thing means that much to you.
So he does.
Gokudera looks taken aback, somehow, and in a second he recovers.
“The fuck do you care?” he says, and goes back to watching Tsuna watch Kyoko.
“I just wondered,” Yamamoto replies cheerfully, and it’s a real lie, the way he smiles like the idiot Gokudera calls him for, and Yamamoto has that feeling that he has every now and then that he’s not pretending, none of this is a game. Baseball is a game. But then again, baseball is Yamamoto’s oxygen, and that is no game. It’s serious.
So he asks again, because clearly Gokudera was avoiding the question, and he must have hit a chord somewhere because Gokudera rounds on him and sputters something in what must be Italian and walks off, casting a heated glance backward and a muttered, “Asshole” that makes Yamamoto want to laugh.
He asks again.
Not the next day and not a week later. Sometime later, though. Gokudera pointedly avoids the question each time or mutters something about explosives finding their way to a place Yamamoto would find uncomfortable.
Yamamoto does laugh then, and for the first time since... well, the first time, asks a second time in a raw. Gokudera glares at him and says “It really isn’t any of your fucking business,” but Yamamoto isn’t convinced because it suddenly is his business.
Gokudera wants to kiss him, too.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Or maybe he does.
And for some reason, that becomes the subject of the next morning letter. And the one after, until Yamamoto is convinced that Gokudera is tired of denying it to himself.
On that day he arranged for Tsuna to walk Kyoko home. The poor boy is stuttering a little as they head off, but as they cross the street his shoulders relax and the girl smiles.
When they are out of sight he turns to see Gokudera waiting for him.
“Are we going or not?” he nearly barks, and Yamamoto smiles. It’s not like Kyoko’s smile but at the same time it is and he puts one hand on Gokudera’s shoulder and pins him to the stone wall outside the school and leans in.
Gokudera has a look on his face that clearly says even if he wants to permit this - and he does - he’s probably going to pull some dynamite from somewhere. And he does, a fistful of it two seconds too late as Yamamoto lightly presses his lips to Gokudera’s, trying not to be overwhelmed by the smoky exhale and by Gokudera’s eyes. The dynamite drops to the ground in a messy scatter, not a stick of it ignited. Yamamoto steps back, and suddenly Gokudera is pouding his fists into the wall behind him, muttering in Italian and then glaring at him. “You lousy fucker, that was my first - “ and he doesn’t get the rest out because he figures it’s a pretty good time to storm off and call “Asshole!” over his shoulder as he goes.
He doesn’t, however, tell Yamamoto not to try again.
Yamamoto wraps his arms around a retreating Gokudera every time, after every chaste kiss. Gokudera always stiffens at the contact, but he never pulls away immediately.
The morning letters become much more complicated.
And then, Yamamoto wakes up to an email message on his phone that reads simply: ”Wake up and get to school, you asshole.”
He gets to the point where he can make Gokudera gasp for breath after a long moment of tangled breath and the moderate pressure of his lips moving against the other’s. He gets to like that sound, and he likes it even more when Gokudera’s hands flinch away because he know’s that his cue to break the intimacy, deftly knocking Gokudera’s wrist aside so that the little explosions occur a safe distance away. The dynamite concealed up his sleeves lets Yamamoto subtly know that Gokudera likes it too much.
Wake up, baseball idiot,
the messages begin, and this time they are in neat round characters on the small screen of his phone, and he runs to the spot where he usually encounters Gokudera in the mornings before they head past Tsuna’s house to escort him to school.
“You’re a moron,” Gokudera says as he crushes his cigarette into the cement, leans heavily against a chain link fence and waits for Yamamoto to kiss him.
And then his father dies.
Somehow, Yamamoto is suddenly alone, in a suit, with a katana over his shoulder and a few scars. Things change, but it’s Gokudera leaning forward to initiate a kiss that really gets him. He feels almost as though he might want to cry. For his father. But he knows that Gokudera will be angry over that.
“Your ass could have got killed,” Gokudera starts.
“Worrying about me,” Yamamoto replies, not a question.
Gokudera scoffs. “I’d never forgive your sorry ass if something happened to the Tenth that you could have prevented...” he mutters. With that burning a memory from ten years ago, he shifts, changing everything with a simple touch.
Not that Yamamoto hasn’t thought of touching.
He knows how to touch himself, and he remembers the period in his life maybe eight years ago when Gokudera tried to ignore him and the kissing and the dynamite falling to the ground and even blocked Yamamoto’s phone messages. He remembers touching himself and thinking about Haru as he did it, because she was nice and she would be the type to smile at him as her hands pressed into him and stroked just so. More often than not her face turned into Gokudera’s.
Gokudera is glaring at him, and Yamamoto feels like maybe this was how it was that first time they kissed. Maybe.
“You,” Gokudera says, and it’s as much a command as it is an insult or anything else, and Yamamoto remembers the day he woke up to
”Just kiss me again, idiot.”
and all the kisses after that, all of them ones he started, until this one.
Gokudera’s hands are rough, as he expected, undoing the buttons of the dress shirt with calculated haste. “You can undress me, too, you asshole,” he hisses. Yamamoto actually smiles at that and complies at a much more measured pace, almost laughing when Gokudera pushes him down onto the bottom bunk of the beds they sleep in during high alerts.
Gokudera gets impatient, and he starts to shed his own clothes rapidly, glaring at him and saying things in Italian that Yamamoto translated loosely to mean things Gokudera wants out of him within the next few minutes. He grasps Yamamoto’s shoulders after fumbling with his belt for a long minute and initiates another kiss, fingers running through the short black hair shot through with sweat. He’d been running from some Black Spell, and it had been murder to throw them off a trail that could have led them to the base. So this is his reward.
Gokudera’s skin is paler than his, flushed angrily red with scars under his shirt. For all that he’s a mid to long range fighter, he takes a beating every time.
“Can I touch you?”
Gokudera makes a noise that is half disgust and takes advantage of his leverage over Yamamoto, shoving a knee between his legs and trusting him with more weight. Yamamoto takes it as an invitation to spread his legs and grind lightly against him. Gokudera shudders and presses down further. By now Yamamoto decides to stop counting how many kisses the other starts and just goes, enjoying the feel of Gokudera’s tense breathing as he runs his hands down his back, the urgency at which Gokudera increases the friction of his knee into the fork of Yamamoto’s legs.
Yamamoto wants to laugh again because he knows for certain that neither of them know what they’re doing. They’ve never held each other this close. Clothing was never removed.
Gokudera’s fingers pause at Yamamoto’s belt buckle.
“You’d better not call my name like a woman, you idiot,” he says, tongue darting out to moisten the cupid’s bow of his lip. Yamamoto hesitates. He can’t guarantee that he won’t. But he relaxes in that way that puts an annoyed sort of scowl on Gokudera’s face, watches him push back a strand of hair and then grasp the buckle, tearing it open.
He’s only ever touched himself before, so Gokudera’s fingers, coarse from mixing dry chemicals, touch the base of his arousal, he shifts in a mildly violent reflex. Gokudera pins him down again and exhales sharply, folding his hand around the warm shaft, meets Yamamoto’s eyes.
When Yamamoto wakes up, he forgets what time he’s in because it feels as though he should be reaching for his alarm clock, two or three days after baseball season. There should be a note. Not from Gokudera, but written in his voice.
Instead there is a soft and alien rustle of sheets and thick wool blanket, and rough hands working their way in patterns up his thigh. Gokudera’s cheek is pressed to his abdomen, and when Yamamoto’s eyes open and adjust to the dim light, the halo of pale silvery hair moves, the rough hands pressing his legs down evenly. Gokudera mutter something that sounds like
”Wake up, baseball idiot,”
in a soft growl, and Yamamoto watches, transfixed, as Gokudera’s mouth lowers, warmth spreading over him, his pubic hairs bristling. Gokudera’s tongue stokes his length once, twice, and then Gokudera’s eyes close as he seems to swallow the entire length, his chin brushing the sensitive flesh bulging under the base of Yamamoto’s arousal.
He decides that he prefers this sort of motivation to the letters.