Fic: Addictions (1/1)
Title: Addictions
Author: kittyling
Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: 8059 (Yamamoto x Gokudera)
Warnings: Gokudera drops the F-bomb a few times, but I didn't think that warranted an R rating.
Notes: This was supposed to be a short little thing to help me procrastinate on a paper, and it turned into something...a lot longer than I meant for it to be. Set ten years later. A little sappier than the stuff I usually write, but hopefully it's still IC? And I hope you all enjoy it. ♥
Shaking an addiction is difficult. Forcing something that's a regular part of your routine to get the fuck out and to never come back, to spend the next days and weeks just craving, reduced to shivers and desperation, stomach constantly in knots-- It's like your addiction knows you didn't really want to let it go, and it pays you back tenfold. As if to say 'I told you so'.
Gokudera has convinced himself that he can stop smoking when--if--he wants to. That it's a personal choice when he flicks open his lighter, a short burst of blue-yellow-white flame as he lights his cigarette, inhaling until his lungs ache with discomfort and pleasure.
Not an addiction. A personal choice.
Gokudera stopped counting the number of times that idiot tried to get him to quit. Nimble fingers snatching the cigarette from his hand just as he went to light up, chapped bottom lip bitten to keep from smiling and brown eyes bright as that cigarette was held hostage over Gokudera's head--like they were still fucking kids--the dynamite user cursing and trying to grab at it. In the end the cigarette was thrown into the nearest trash receptable, but--whatever, he could just grab another one from his pack. Just not while Yamamoto was around.
He can quit whenever he wants to. He just doesn't want to.
~
Gokudera feels alone.
It's the stupidest thing. He's in the most heavily populated city in Tuscany, can't stop to breathe without nearly getting run over by a Vespa or some stupid goddamn tourist running to take a picture of some stupid fucking statue and he's never felt more isolated in his life.
Firenze. The word is beautiful and the city itself is beautiful, in a word; every street, every landmark and every building torn between representing centuries of history or the here and now. It's not as cosmopolitan as Rome, nor as graceful and majestic as Venice, but still breathtaking in its own way. He never feels like exploring, though; not while he's here for work. It's been a week and he's kept to his hotel room when he doesn't have to be out, negotiating over a plate of antipasti or bistecca alla fiorentina. It's all simple business, and Gokudera wishes that it were something more--challenging. Exciting. He doesn't want to be here.
Being back in Italy is overwhelming at times, producing a dull ache in his chest at best, an assault on the senses at worst. Absorbing the history and the culture that's so familiar and so foreign to him now; hearing the fluidity, the romance of the language, the click-clack of his Oxfords on cobblestone streets, the rush of wind in his hair from dozens of wings fluttering past, a flock of pidgeons taking flight. The warmth of a porcelain mug in his hands as he sips his coffee in the morning--black, bitter, the only way that tastes right with a smoke--or at a cafe, safe at a table under a wide umbrella until an afternoon storm passes.
Spring rain in Italy is the worst.
In that early morning haze between waking and dreaming, Gokudera hears a rhythmic patter against glass and pulls the sheets close around him. The air in his hotel room is cool, and would be refreshing if he were more awake but now it just entices him further under the covers, the sound of the rain lulling him back into the comfort of sleep.
And back into the comfort of someone's arm encircling him, a warm, broad chest against his back. The tickle of breath against his ear, a whisper with a hint of a smile--'Hayato'--as he grunts and swats at the hand trying to pull the covers off of him. 'Too goddamn early.' And eventually Gokudera feels the rise and fall of the chest pressed to him beginning to slow again, breath evening out, the thrum of a heartbeat seeming to fall into synch with his own.
In moments like this, Gokudera wonders if there really are two hearts in this bed. Maybe they had merged into one sometime during the night, without consent from the bodies they belonged to. It's a thought he refuses to truly entertain, just letting it drift quietly through his mind, as thoughts tend to after a dream.
And when the rain falls harder, thunder shaking the old windows in this unfamiliar room, Gokudera opens his eyes. His fingers are clenched in sheets that don't belong to him, his back exposed to nothing but air. Cold.
Gokudera shivers. His stomach twists into knots within seconds and he's sitting up, fingers shakily pushing silver bangs out of his eyes, free hand fumbling for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand.
Not an addiction.
~
"How long?"
The questions are short. Simple, but loaded. Gokudera shrugs as he tosses another tie into his suitcase, trying to ignore the way Yamamoto's eyes are boring holes into his back.
"Reborn didn't say. Probably a month, maybe a little more."
Gokudera knows that it's not so much a matter of days and weeks. It's not a matter of Reborn sending him away for business or even 'personal growth'.
He's been reckless since the Tenth's death. It's been months and he still goes too far, still comes home with more burns, cuts and bruises--sometimes broken bones--than he should. He's making things too dangerous for himself and for the family. So Reborn is sending him away for a while. To Florence. Gokudera doesn't say as much to Yamamoto, but Yamamoto knows. He may play stupid, but he always catches on when Gokudera least wants him to. Age and time has helped that along.
It's humiliating and Yamamoto is the last person he wants to be here with him as he's sent away. And the next question that idiot asks is the reason why.
"Will you be okay?"
Gokudera shuts his suitcase with more force than necessary, knuckles white as he grips the edge of it. "I'm always fucking okay. Don't ask stupid questions."
In an instant Gokudera feels strong arms around him and every muscle in his body tenses. Not now, not now-- Yamamoto is warm, like he always is, and smells like spices and sandalwood and earth. Like he always does. Always has.
"You'll be okay, Hayato."
That name just makes him tense further, chest feeling tight enough to burst. He wants Yamamoto to let go. To leave. He wants to be left alone, to not have to feel--
The next words are murmured, soft and low against his ear and green eyes widen, disbelieving.
"I love you."
A sharp sound, the smack of Gokudera's hand hitting Yamamoto's cheek, echoes in the otherwise silent room.
~
Going to visit soon.
-- Yamamoto
Gokudera doesn't know why he bothered with a letter. The idiot could've just called; but he probably knew that Gokudera would hang up. Could've just shown up, but he probably knew that Gokudera would be angry if he did.
His stomach lurches when he rereads the letter. It starts to sink in, and Gokudera feels sick. Wonders if destroying the letter will keep Yamamoto from coming. (Gokudera knows that his logic is laughable, desperate.) Long, slender fingers grip the edges of the paper and shake with the urge to rip it up or burn it.
Instead, those fingers reach for another cigarette.
~
Sunsets over Florence are breathtaking.
The view is best from the hills outside the city. Oranges and reds fade to brilliant purple and midnight blue as the sun touches the horizon, sunset melting into twilight. The city below looks like the night sky, electric lights like thousands of stars, Il Duomo a strange monolith amongst them. The Arno winds along the outskirts of it all, calm water a mirror for the steadily darkening sky.
After a month, this is all that Gokudera isn't sick of. But Yamamoto is here, leaning on the railing of the overlook, gaze drifting over the city. The calm this view should have brought Gokudera just doesn't come.
"It's stunning."
Gokudera gives a noncommital grunt. Yamamoto hasn't yet commented on the fact that since he arrived that afternoon, Gokudera's barely spoken a word to him.
Yamamoto turns to look at him, expression unreadable for a moment before he smiles. Somehow, the scar on his chin still startles Gokudera. Like it doesn't belong on that face that used to be so carefree, that now holds a seriousness beneath most of its laughs and smiles. It makes Gokudera feel old and tired.
"Did you miss me?"
Always simple on the surface. And so goddamn complicated underneath. But that was Yamamoto in a nutshell, wasn't it?
Gokudera grunts again.
"No." Yes.
Yamamoto studies him again, and Gokudera feels the scrutiny of that gaze. He lowers his own, green eyes picking some point of light in the distance to focus on. And then the taller man is moving closer, stepping in front of him. The point of light vanishes and Gokudera is forced to look up.
Yamamoto draws in a breath.
"What I said, before you left--"
Gokudera's mouth goes dry and there he goes, stomach twisting into knots tighter than ever before. He doesn't want to talk about this. There's a ringing in his ears when Yamamoto continues.
"--I still mean it."
This time, Gokudera doesn't smack him. His lips purse into a thin line, gaze searching Yamamoto's as his fingers clench in the older man's shirt, trembling. He's angry, and his eyes show it, but he's not 14 anymore. Yamamoto probably deserves another slap, but Gokudera feels too--
He doesn't know what he feels, and that's the problem.
Gokudera lets go finally, roughly, shoving the other man slightly. His words are equally rough, edges laced with something akin to hurt. He hates it.
"Why the fuck would you do that to me? Right before jetting halfway across the fucking world for God knows how long--"
A sharp intake of breath and a slower exhale, pale hand passing over his eyes.
"Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to stop thinking about you?"
Gokudera doesn't watch Yamamoto's reaction--doesn't need to. He knows that wasn't what the swordsman was expecting. Though Gokudera doesn't expect the brush of fingers against his cheek either, the soft press of lips to his own. The arms embracing him after another moment, so familiar and it's been so long that Gokudera almost aches, a hand slowly moving to rest against Yamamoto's back.
He wants to laugh at the thought that this--this is the one fucking thing that sends him into withdrawal. Not his goddamn cigarettes, not anything else. Just stupid, stupid Yamamoto.
Gokudera will never say it, but he's certain Yamamoto knows.
They're kissing again, lips moving fiercely together, bodies close in the increasingly chill night air. Gokudera's heart is pounding loudly in his ears and he moves a hand to rest against Yamamoto's chest. For once, his own heart is beating faster.
~
"Reborn wants you to come back with me."
Gokudera turns his head to look at Yamamoto, the taller man resting on his side, yellow light of the bedside lamp casting shadows across his features, making it difficult to determine what he's thinking. It used to be so much easier to read him, expressions and emotions passing over his face without much of a filter. Not that Yamamoto was terribly deep, back then; but he had his moments.
"Why?"
"We need you."
Now Yamamoto's a little easier to read. A hand lifting to brush a strand of hair out of Gokudera's eyes, gaze and fingers lingering on his cheek. Replace the we with an unspoken I.
Gokudera feels something--akin to relief, to gratitude at that. His lips twitch into a smile.
"Good. Knew you would eventually."
Lips press to Gokudera's forehead, the bridge of his nose, his mouth. Then those words again.
"I love you."
Gokudera's chest still tightens at that, heart rate picks up, but he's not angry. It's just strange to hear it after years of nothing but actions, clumsy and uncertain when they were teenagers and...still a bit clumsy and uncertain now, but this all became routine as they grew older. An awkward dance without a song to go with it.
But now that Yamamoto is here, saying it without weeks of isolation ahead-- It feels a bit like something has fallen into place. Clicked. And for once the idiot was the one who found the missing piece.
Figures.
Gokudera takes Yamamoto's hand in his own, green gaze lifting to meet brown as he presses an unusually soft kiss to his palm.
"Go to sleep, idiot."
I love you, too.
Author: kittyling
Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: 8059 (Yamamoto x Gokudera)
Warnings: Gokudera drops the F-bomb a few times, but I didn't think that warranted an R rating.
Notes: This was supposed to be a short little thing to help me procrastinate on a paper, and it turned into something...a lot longer than I meant for it to be. Set ten years later. A little sappier than the stuff I usually write, but hopefully it's still IC? And I hope you all enjoy it. ♥
Shaking an addiction is difficult. Forcing something that's a regular part of your routine to get the fuck out and to never come back, to spend the next days and weeks just craving, reduced to shivers and desperation, stomach constantly in knots-- It's like your addiction knows you didn't really want to let it go, and it pays you back tenfold. As if to say 'I told you so'.
Gokudera has convinced himself that he can stop smoking when--if--he wants to. That it's a personal choice when he flicks open his lighter, a short burst of blue-yellow-white flame as he lights his cigarette, inhaling until his lungs ache with discomfort and pleasure.
Not an addiction. A personal choice.
Gokudera stopped counting the number of times that idiot tried to get him to quit. Nimble fingers snatching the cigarette from his hand just as he went to light up, chapped bottom lip bitten to keep from smiling and brown eyes bright as that cigarette was held hostage over Gokudera's head--like they were still fucking kids--the dynamite user cursing and trying to grab at it. In the end the cigarette was thrown into the nearest trash receptable, but--whatever, he could just grab another one from his pack. Just not while Yamamoto was around.
He can quit whenever he wants to. He just doesn't want to.
~
Gokudera feels alone.
It's the stupidest thing. He's in the most heavily populated city in Tuscany, can't stop to breathe without nearly getting run over by a Vespa or some stupid goddamn tourist running to take a picture of some stupid fucking statue and he's never felt more isolated in his life.
Firenze. The word is beautiful and the city itself is beautiful, in a word; every street, every landmark and every building torn between representing centuries of history or the here and now. It's not as cosmopolitan as Rome, nor as graceful and majestic as Venice, but still breathtaking in its own way. He never feels like exploring, though; not while he's here for work. It's been a week and he's kept to his hotel room when he doesn't have to be out, negotiating over a plate of antipasti or bistecca alla fiorentina. It's all simple business, and Gokudera wishes that it were something more--challenging. Exciting. He doesn't want to be here.
Being back in Italy is overwhelming at times, producing a dull ache in his chest at best, an assault on the senses at worst. Absorbing the history and the culture that's so familiar and so foreign to him now; hearing the fluidity, the romance of the language, the click-clack of his Oxfords on cobblestone streets, the rush of wind in his hair from dozens of wings fluttering past, a flock of pidgeons taking flight. The warmth of a porcelain mug in his hands as he sips his coffee in the morning--black, bitter, the only way that tastes right with a smoke--or at a cafe, safe at a table under a wide umbrella until an afternoon storm passes.
Spring rain in Italy is the worst.
In that early morning haze between waking and dreaming, Gokudera hears a rhythmic patter against glass and pulls the sheets close around him. The air in his hotel room is cool, and would be refreshing if he were more awake but now it just entices him further under the covers, the sound of the rain lulling him back into the comfort of sleep.
And back into the comfort of someone's arm encircling him, a warm, broad chest against his back. The tickle of breath against his ear, a whisper with a hint of a smile--'Hayato'--as he grunts and swats at the hand trying to pull the covers off of him. 'Too goddamn early.' And eventually Gokudera feels the rise and fall of the chest pressed to him beginning to slow again, breath evening out, the thrum of a heartbeat seeming to fall into synch with his own.
In moments like this, Gokudera wonders if there really are two hearts in this bed. Maybe they had merged into one sometime during the night, without consent from the bodies they belonged to. It's a thought he refuses to truly entertain, just letting it drift quietly through his mind, as thoughts tend to after a dream.
And when the rain falls harder, thunder shaking the old windows in this unfamiliar room, Gokudera opens his eyes. His fingers are clenched in sheets that don't belong to him, his back exposed to nothing but air. Cold.
Gokudera shivers. His stomach twists into knots within seconds and he's sitting up, fingers shakily pushing silver bangs out of his eyes, free hand fumbling for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand.
Not an addiction.
~
"How long?"
The questions are short. Simple, but loaded. Gokudera shrugs as he tosses another tie into his suitcase, trying to ignore the way Yamamoto's eyes are boring holes into his back.
"Reborn didn't say. Probably a month, maybe a little more."
Gokudera knows that it's not so much a matter of days and weeks. It's not a matter of Reborn sending him away for business or even 'personal growth'.
He's been reckless since the Tenth's death. It's been months and he still goes too far, still comes home with more burns, cuts and bruises--sometimes broken bones--than he should. He's making things too dangerous for himself and for the family. So Reborn is sending him away for a while. To Florence. Gokudera doesn't say as much to Yamamoto, but Yamamoto knows. He may play stupid, but he always catches on when Gokudera least wants him to. Age and time has helped that along.
It's humiliating and Yamamoto is the last person he wants to be here with him as he's sent away. And the next question that idiot asks is the reason why.
"Will you be okay?"
Gokudera shuts his suitcase with more force than necessary, knuckles white as he grips the edge of it. "I'm always fucking okay. Don't ask stupid questions."
In an instant Gokudera feels strong arms around him and every muscle in his body tenses. Not now, not now-- Yamamoto is warm, like he always is, and smells like spices and sandalwood and earth. Like he always does. Always has.
"You'll be okay, Hayato."
That name just makes him tense further, chest feeling tight enough to burst. He wants Yamamoto to let go. To leave. He wants to be left alone, to not have to feel--
The next words are murmured, soft and low against his ear and green eyes widen, disbelieving.
"I love you."
A sharp sound, the smack of Gokudera's hand hitting Yamamoto's cheek, echoes in the otherwise silent room.
~
Going to visit soon.
-- Yamamoto
Gokudera doesn't know why he bothered with a letter. The idiot could've just called; but he probably knew that Gokudera would hang up. Could've just shown up, but he probably knew that Gokudera would be angry if he did.
His stomach lurches when he rereads the letter. It starts to sink in, and Gokudera feels sick. Wonders if destroying the letter will keep Yamamoto from coming. (Gokudera knows that his logic is laughable, desperate.) Long, slender fingers grip the edges of the paper and shake with the urge to rip it up or burn it.
Instead, those fingers reach for another cigarette.
~
Sunsets over Florence are breathtaking.
The view is best from the hills outside the city. Oranges and reds fade to brilliant purple and midnight blue as the sun touches the horizon, sunset melting into twilight. The city below looks like the night sky, electric lights like thousands of stars, Il Duomo a strange monolith amongst them. The Arno winds along the outskirts of it all, calm water a mirror for the steadily darkening sky.
After a month, this is all that Gokudera isn't sick of. But Yamamoto is here, leaning on the railing of the overlook, gaze drifting over the city. The calm this view should have brought Gokudera just doesn't come.
"It's stunning."
Gokudera gives a noncommital grunt. Yamamoto hasn't yet commented on the fact that since he arrived that afternoon, Gokudera's barely spoken a word to him.
Yamamoto turns to look at him, expression unreadable for a moment before he smiles. Somehow, the scar on his chin still startles Gokudera. Like it doesn't belong on that face that used to be so carefree, that now holds a seriousness beneath most of its laughs and smiles. It makes Gokudera feel old and tired.
"Did you miss me?"
Always simple on the surface. And so goddamn complicated underneath. But that was Yamamoto in a nutshell, wasn't it?
Gokudera grunts again.
"No." Yes.
Yamamoto studies him again, and Gokudera feels the scrutiny of that gaze. He lowers his own, green eyes picking some point of light in the distance to focus on. And then the taller man is moving closer, stepping in front of him. The point of light vanishes and Gokudera is forced to look up.
Yamamoto draws in a breath.
"What I said, before you left--"
Gokudera's mouth goes dry and there he goes, stomach twisting into knots tighter than ever before. He doesn't want to talk about this. There's a ringing in his ears when Yamamoto continues.
"--I still mean it."
This time, Gokudera doesn't smack him. His lips purse into a thin line, gaze searching Yamamoto's as his fingers clench in the older man's shirt, trembling. He's angry, and his eyes show it, but he's not 14 anymore. Yamamoto probably deserves another slap, but Gokudera feels too--
He doesn't know what he feels, and that's the problem.
Gokudera lets go finally, roughly, shoving the other man slightly. His words are equally rough, edges laced with something akin to hurt. He hates it.
"Why the fuck would you do that to me? Right before jetting halfway across the fucking world for God knows how long--"
A sharp intake of breath and a slower exhale, pale hand passing over his eyes.
"Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to stop thinking about you?"
Gokudera doesn't watch Yamamoto's reaction--doesn't need to. He knows that wasn't what the swordsman was expecting. Though Gokudera doesn't expect the brush of fingers against his cheek either, the soft press of lips to his own. The arms embracing him after another moment, so familiar and it's been so long that Gokudera almost aches, a hand slowly moving to rest against Yamamoto's back.
He wants to laugh at the thought that this--this is the one fucking thing that sends him into withdrawal. Not his goddamn cigarettes, not anything else. Just stupid, stupid Yamamoto.
Gokudera will never say it, but he's certain Yamamoto knows.
They're kissing again, lips moving fiercely together, bodies close in the increasingly chill night air. Gokudera's heart is pounding loudly in his ears and he moves a hand to rest against Yamamoto's chest. For once, his own heart is beating faster.
~
"Reborn wants you to come back with me."
Gokudera turns his head to look at Yamamoto, the taller man resting on his side, yellow light of the bedside lamp casting shadows across his features, making it difficult to determine what he's thinking. It used to be so much easier to read him, expressions and emotions passing over his face without much of a filter. Not that Yamamoto was terribly deep, back then; but he had his moments.
"Why?"
"We need you."
Now Yamamoto's a little easier to read. A hand lifting to brush a strand of hair out of Gokudera's eyes, gaze and fingers lingering on his cheek. Replace the we with an unspoken I.
Gokudera feels something--akin to relief, to gratitude at that. His lips twitch into a smile.
"Good. Knew you would eventually."
Lips press to Gokudera's forehead, the bridge of his nose, his mouth. Then those words again.
"I love you."
Gokudera's chest still tightens at that, heart rate picks up, but he's not angry. It's just strange to hear it after years of nothing but actions, clumsy and uncertain when they were teenagers and...still a bit clumsy and uncertain now, but this all became routine as they grew older. An awkward dance without a song to go with it.
But now that Yamamoto is here, saying it without weeks of isolation ahead-- It feels a bit like something has fallen into place. Clicked. And for once the idiot was the one who found the missing piece.
Figures.
Gokudera takes Yamamoto's hand in his own, green gaze lifting to meet brown as he presses an unusually soft kiss to his palm.
"Go to sleep, idiot."
I love you, too.