(no subject)

[pollinia]

Title: Three Attempts on Gokudera's Part to Give Yamamoto Culture, for the Good of the Vongola Family and All Associated
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Rating: PG-13 (for language and suggested boy-boy stuff)
Word Count: 6700
Notes: Thanks to leosgalpiper, schizocherri, and templated for their amazing help in an early draft of this, when it was nothing but pieces patched together into something resembling order. You guys have drabbles over here. And, holy research, Batman! Acknowledgments to The Godfather triology, Wine for Dummies, and Italian Wine for Dummies, from whence I learned things.



Part I

"Haha, you know what I heard?"

"Nn," Gokudera said, continuing to focus intently on the algebra book spread open on his lap. He had not intended for his annoyed grunt to be an invitation to conversation, but Yamamoto pushed his way inside anyway. Idiot.

"I was watching the news -- you know the cranky guy with the glasses?"

Gokudera did not answer, so after a moment, Yamamoto pushed forward.

"Anyway, he was saying that playing music makes you better at math."

Gokudera rolled his eyes. "So does the presence of functioning brain cells."

Yamamoto tilted his head to the side. "Hmm? Maybe the music helps with that? I bet that's why you're so smart, haha!" And he slapped Gokudera on the back.

In his mind, Gokudera slowly counted down from ten...oh, good. All sticks of dynamite present and accounted for. He wondered how long until the Tenth returned from defusing a particularly sticky Lambo Situation. He should have enough time. If he just shoved one... No. This was a test, he was sure of it. He could tolerate Yamamoto. For the Tenth.

"Man," Yamamoto said, twisting his body to both sides to crack his back, "I bet if I knew how to play guitar or piano or something, I could figure out this proof stuff."

Oh, Gokudera thought to himself, don't you dare. There's no way in hell I'm going to--

"I think you should teach him."

"Hey! Look at the tiny maestro!" Yamamoto was pointing at the open window where, indeed, a tiny maestro was leaning against the frame. He was dressed in tux, tails, and a top hat. He wore a pencil-thin mustache, and on the brim of his hat rested a tiny baby grand, manned by an equally fashionable chameleon.

And thus it had begun.

By the time Tsuna returned upstairs, the tiny maestro (whom the Tsuna seemed to know; the Tenth knew all the important people) had already arranged for a piano, a practice space, lesson plans, and a private stage performance for some very important people. And Gokudera had no choice in the matter.

And he was a little terrified. He hadn't played in years. Not since he was too small for his feet to reach the floor from the tall bench. But he played the piano most nights in his dreams.

In these dreams, he was always a teenager or a grown man, and his mother sat beside him. She was beautiful, as beautiful as he remembered her. Her hair was dark and hung in soft waves to her hips. She smiled at him as she hummed the rhythm he was meant to play. She guided his hands with her own. And Gokudera learned the joy that came from pleasing the people he loved. In these dreams, he looked like a man, but he felt as he had when he was a boy.

He'd had these dreams more frequently since he'd come to Japan, this place that smelled like his mother. He'd wake alone in his apartment, cursing his stupid sentimentality as he walked unsteadily to the kitchen to get some water. his fingers would feel tired as if he'd been playing all night. Despite this, he'd never sought out a piano since he'd left his father's house. How was he supposed to teach some idiot how to play something that he barely remembered himself?

So he'd sent Yamamoto home with an armload of texts to read through. It wasn't stalling, not at all. It's just that the whole thing was so stupid. Nothing, including these lessons, would make Yamamoto any less of an embarrassment to the Family. Gokudera didn't know how to change that. Still, it was for the Tenth, he reminded himself. He could teach Yamamoto to sing and dance and juggle, if the Tenth asked him to. So he was armed with books and CDs, a metronome and centuries of pedagogy distilled down into a one-week lesson plan. Of course, none of these books was anything like his mother's gentle lessons. But Yamamoto was hardly a child.

Gokudera found himself stalking around outside of Namimori Junior High School, staring at its vast brick walls and its dark windows. It was a Sunday. No one owuld be there but the two of them. Gokudera didn't know how Reborn had managed to secure for them the practice room, but he had.

Gokudera had never been inside the music room. He did, however, walk past it every day on his way back in from lunch on the rooftop. And as he walked by, he could hear the students playing inside. Most of them were as atrocious as Yamamoto promised to be, but sometimes the sweet sounds of a deftly played piano would come drifting out and he would decide to skip his upcoming history class. He'd stick a cigarette between his lips so, on the off-chance that someone should happen by, he could say he was having a smoke in the hall. It would be outrageous and he would probably get kicked out, but it would be a good cover.

Outside the school in the grey-gold dawn, he paced around. He pulled a cigarette from his pack, played with it, and put it in his mouth. He didn't like Yamamoto. He didn't like teaching. He did happen to like the piano, but that wasn't anybody's business and they could just buzz off. And he certainly had no formal training, not the kind that Yamamoto would need. His training had been at the worn piano his mother played, though he had also played the shiny, extravagant one at his father's place. The one with the hollow notes. But when he was just learning, it was at that old upright piano and his mother would stand behind him, her hands on his own, and she'd show him where to place his fingers and how to press down the keys. The books he'd given Yamamoto talked about about scales and repetition, sternness and practice, but Gokudera only knew his mother's gentle encouragement.

And there was no way in hell he was going to give that to Yamamoto. He wasn't Yamamoto's goddamn mother. As he plucked the unlit cigarette from his lips and rolled it between his fingers, he realized that he didn't know anything about Yamamoto's mom. (Was she alive? Dead? Divorced?) Not that he ever asked Yamamoto anything more than he absolutely had to. But he couldn't imagine his mother being anything but warm and beautiful. Yamamoto didn't need any more encouragement than he was already getting from his family.

The thought of Yamamoto waiting upstairs, smiling brightly and sitting patiently, made Gokudera's stomach knot up. These lessons would be just like the times he had to play for his dad's parties. The thought terrified him. He hated being obligated to do things. And the idiot was probably up there at that very moment, humming to himself and, oh god, playing the with the keys on the piano.

But he had to do this. For the Tenth if for nothing else. He would be a hard-ass teacher and whip Yamamoto into shape and take that, Reborn. As he pushed grudgingly inside and headed up the stairs, his footsteps squeaking on the steps and echoed around, he pictured Yamamoto's fingers landing on the wrong keys as they practiced. He remembered his own early screw-ups. "Just relax, Hayato. It's okay," his mom would say, resting a hand on top of his head, "try it again." Her voice had been so sweet and warm, and even though he hadn't heard it in years, he still played it in his head to calm himself. He wouldn't be quite so warm with Yamamoto, though; he couldn't be. "Pay attention," he pictured himself saying, "if you'd slow down, you'd quit screwing up."

He paused outside the music room door, his hand on the knob. Yamamoto wouldn't have the patience to play. Or the passion. He remembered his mother, humming about the house, singing to him as she cooked, as she washed the dishes. Yamamoto was too dumb to be passionate about anything.

Gokudera pushed into the room. He was surprised to find it empty.

"Lazy ass can't even get out of bed on time for this," he muttered to himself, as he approached the piano.

He hadn't seen on in years. Cautiously, he reached out a hand. He rested it against the side. The wood was brown and worn. It was an upright, just like the one he'd learned on. Carefully, he slid his fingers along the front of edge of the keys, slowly, appraisingly. He walked along the length, dragging his fingers along behind him. The keys were so cool and smooth to the touch. When he reached the end, the first C, he let his fingers press the key and a sound bounced out, surprised and sudden.

Gokudera felt the goosebumps speed up his arms. Years. Almost a decade. Almost a decade of being alone and scared and unwanted. Almost a decade until he found this Family, until the Tenth had accepted him and given him this task. And it terrified him to think that he couldn't fulfill it.

Not that he didn't know how to play. He knew that he could sit before this piano, this thing that finally fit his body like it never did when he was a small boy, he could sit down and play as smoothly as he once had. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, the piano was the only thing he had left of his mother and he didn't know if he wanted to share it with someone else. Not someone like Yamamoto, anyway, someone who wouldn't understand the passion she'd had for it. Gokudera was greedy.

He swallowed thickly and positioned his fingers over the keys, pressing out a short one-handed melody. At the end, as he pressed out the last notes, a sharp noise cut through the song.

Gokudera frowned and walked to the window. Outside, he could see the parking lot to the far left, then the playground, and to the far right, he could see the baseball diamond. The noise rang out again, and Gokudera saw him in the batting cage, his arms stretched out behind him as he followed through with his swing. Then he shook it off and bent back into batting position.

Yamamoto looked especially tall in the batting cage, all hunched over, his long legs bent. Gokudera watched the automatic machine spit out another ball and listened for the explosion of another connecting pitch. What an idiot, to be out practicing this early. His hair was damp with sweat; he must have been out there for a while already. Gokudera wondered why he hadn't heard the sounds earlier, but he'd been a little distracted.

So that's where he'd been. Gokudera allowed himself a small smile, which he trained back in place before rapping on the window and yelling, "Oi! Baseball idiot!"

Yamamoto whipped around, startled, then laughed and waved. He picked up his mess, then sprinted up to the school. Gokudera could hear the broad, heavy doors downstairs open and slam shut, and he could hear Yamamoto's footsteps squeaking and echoing up the stairs. Yamamoto was breathless when he pushed open the door to the music room.

"Sorry," he said, panting and sweaty, "got distracted. You know how it is, right?"

Gokudera appraised him for a moment. He took in the sights of the baseball uniform, the flushed cheeks, the bright smile. Yamamoto loved the game.

"Let's do this well, okay? I read all the books you sent home with me. I didn't understand much, but you'll teach me, right? Haha!"

Gokudera frowned and sat down on the bench, facing away from Yamamoto.

"Ignore those books," he said, smiling to himself, this small warm thing that his mother used to do with her mouth, "we're going to try something different."

Part II

"How can you, Rain Guardian of the Vongola Family, tell me that you've never seen The Godfather?"

Yamamoto smiled and shrugged. "I dunno. Hey, have you seen A League of Their Own?"

"A League of... That's a chick movie!"

"'Chick?' What? No, no, it's a baseball movie."

Gokudera sighed. "You are such a disappointment."

Which wasn't exactly true. Gokudera knew just how good Yamamoto was, how important he was for the Family, for the Tenth. Certainly not good enough to be a right-hand man of course, but pretty good regardless. Yamamoto wasn't a disappointment at all and Gokudera knew it was likely a very good idea for the Vongola to hold on to him. Which made it all the more important for Yamamoto to be well versed in all things Francis Ford Coppola.

"Fine," Yamamoto said with a laugh and a scratch to the back of his head, "come over tomorrow. Dad's out and we can watch them loud."

When Gokudera showed up the next day, his bookbag packed tight with DVDs and official movie guides and the Mario Puzo novel, he went inside without even knocking. He was over there every afternoon anyway; he practically lived there. Inside, Yamamoto was tidying up the living room.

"Hey!" Yamamoto always looked so damn excited. "You're early, but that's okay! Dad left some sashimi made up for us, so I thought maybe we could eat first."

Gokudera's stomach rumbled at the idea. He hadn't eaten breakfast because he was running late getting to the Tenth's for his Morning Visit. But he knew that his own discomfort could be endured for the sake of this lesson.

Gokudera set his bookbag down on the couch.

"Look," he said, "these films are brilliant. Everyone agrees. Take this seriously, and you can learn a lot from them."

Yamamoto nodded. "I learned about teamwork and sisterhood from A League of Their Own."

Gokudera stared at him for a moment before blinking and conceding, "Yeah. Something like that."

He slid the DVD into the player and turned on the TV before taking his place beside Yamamoto on the couch. He sat to Yamamoto's right, a position that had become almost natural for them after so many hours spent at the piano.

"Hey," Yamamoto said, "I should make popcorn."

"No popcorn," Gokudera said.

So they settled in to watch. Gokudera discovered that Yamamoto was one of those annoying movie-watchers: He kept asking who everyone was, why they were doing what they were doing, "Hey, isn't Sonny married to that lady outside?" And it was all so irritating, especially the places where Gokudera could feel that lump forming in his throat, the agony of watching Vito Corleone gunned down in the street. How could he answer such asinine questions when his voice was cracking like a little girl's?

He spent a lot of time shushing Yamamoto, but he was a little pleased that Yamamoto was taking it so seriously. And there was something else, too. Something more than the success of his lesson. It took him at least half an hour to place it, but he finally realized that this was the first time he'd watched a movie with...well, with a friend, he supposed. Or something like that. It was a strange feeling, this sense of comfort.

And what made him feel the strangest was how easy this seemed to be for Yamamoto. He'd so casually invited Gokudera into his home. He was so vulnerably sprawled beside him on the couch, not closed in on himself at all. Everything about Yamamoto was so bald, so open like a wound. And he had no desire to cover it up. Gokudera felt, for the thousandth time, envy well up inside of him. But he sort of liked the way they were sitting together, so he fought it back down.

About halfway through disc one, where the Family is setting up the meeting with Al Pacino in the restaurant, Yamamoto got up to make some popcorn anyway. Gokudera's left arm felt cold at the absence and soon he could hear the soft pop and whir of microwaved popcorn emanating from the kitchen.

He didn't have to pause the movie, but he did it anyway. Even when Yamamoto was being especially annoying, the atmosphere of his home always made Gokudera feel a bit more generous than usual with his good manners. The way the Yamamotos treated him as if he was family made him uneasy but it did make him evaluate his actions a bit more closely. And he was always a perfect gentleman around Yamamoto's dad. He figured, anyone who put up with Yamamoto Takeshi for so long deserved a little respect.

When Yamamoto returned with a heaping bowl of popcorn, Gokudera fought down a soft moan of pleasure at the buttery scent. He had no good reason to resist; it was just the principle of the thing.

"Thanks for pausing," Yamamoto said cheerfully, "what did I miss?"

"Nn," Gokudera grunted in reply and started the movie back up again.

He did his best to be unimpressed by the popcorn, but Yamamoto was crunching so loudly and kept tilting the bowl at him between each bite like some kind of gentleman or something. Finally, Gokudera gave in and took a handful.

"See," Yamamoto asked, "makes the movie better, right?"

Again, Gokudera grunted.

But, aside from his fascination with snacks, Yamamoto seemed to be taking this movie thing very seriously. After he'd gotten his popcorn, he'd quieted up. No more stupid questions. Just silent appreciation. He looked enthralled at all the dramatic parts. He looked horrified and frightened at the violent parts.

"Dad's samurai movies were never this bloody," he said, his eyes never straying from the screen.

Gokudera felt a little satisfied with that. Maybe he'd finally start treating the mafia with the gravity it deserved.

"Hey," Yamamoto said, "that guy behind the desk. He's like the part Tsuna plays in our game, right?"

Gokudera sighed.

Closer to the end, he decided to try again.

"That's true, you know," Gokudera said, nodding his head at the screen when Marlon Brando went to claim his favor from the funeral director, "I remember my...my dad doing this with favors. And he wasn't even a boss."

"Whoa," Yamamoto said in appreciation, and it always amazed Gokudera how frankly the mafia could be discussed in front of him and still he'd think it was a game. But sometimes, for the sake of aesthetics, Gokudera could ignore this grievous, fundamental character flaw.

"This, though," he said, nodding at an unbelievable dialogue exchange, "never happens."

"Huh," Yamamoto said thoughtfully, "well, what about the horse's head bit?"

Gokudera shook his head. "No such thing."

Yamamoto looked satisfied with that, maybe a little relieved for the family pets of the world, and they settled back into quiet enthrallment. And, in the dark, Gokudera was struck with the strangely disconcerting sense that he had just had his first real conversation with Yamamoto, ever. If Yamamoto had noticed, he didn't say anything about it.

Later, when Al Pacino finally appeared on the screen again, all mafia-slick, so different from the young soldier he had been only an hour and a half earlier in the film, Yamamoto laughed.

"Hahaha, can you picture Tsuna in such a shiny suit?" he asked, all smiles and incredulity.

Gokudera blushed fiercely in the darkness, but said nothing because he could picture it. And he had.

When the first disc finished, Gokudera asked if he should put in the next one. He didn't really intend to let Yamamoto say no, but he didn't have to worry about persuading him because Yamamoto simply glanced at his watch and nodded.

Yamamoto didn't move or speak for the whole of The Godfather II, except to ask about the occasional Italian word that was left untranslated because it was untranslatable. Gokudera interpreted as best he could. ("Vendetta?" Yamamoto asked. "Like getting back at someone." "Huh.")

At the end, after the Christmas dinner and Michael Corleone's decision to enlist, without asking Yamamoto got up to change discs himself. Gokudera knew he should be going home, and Yamamoto should be going to bed. But this was Family business which always trumped school business. So he tucked his feet up under his body on the couch and got ready for the final three hours. When Yamamoto sat back down, he let the right side of his body lean up against Gokudera's from shoulder to hip to knee, closer than they ever sat at the piano together. The closing of the gap felt like inevitability. It made Gokudera warmer.

"This okay?" Yamamoto asked, sincerely, smilingly, and Gokudera didn't know if he was talking about the way they were touching or the way they were going to watch something like nine hours of movies on a school night.

"Shh," he said as the Lake Tahoe estate came into focus on the screen and Michael began his voiceover.

Gokudera supposed that the cliche would be for Yamamoto to fall asleep on his shoulder sometime during the riveting third act of the final film. But it didn't happen that way. Yamamoto was as entranced as Gokudera was. Except that Gokudera found himself more fascinated with Yamamoto's face than with the movie. His dark brows were pinched together in concentration. His mouth hung a little slack. And, as the sound of bullets and screams filled the small room, Yamamoto winced and jumped. As a reaction, Gokudera rested a comforting hand on Yamamoto's knee.

Yamamoto didn't say anything, but Gokudera tensed up inside. He hadn't meant to do that, but he didn't feel like pulling away either. So he swallowed a bit of his pride and just left his hand where it was. He battled down the urge to squeeze.

"Amazing, isn't it," he asked. He meant the movie. He swore inside that he meant the movie.

Yamamoto swallowed and nodded. He gave no indication that he'd even noticed Gokudera's hand.

When the movie had ended, something in the dark room felt too heavy for Gokudera to move, so he just sat in place, his leg warm against Yamamoto's, their shoulders together, his hand on Yamamoto's knee. He just sat there and let the credits roll over the sinister violin score.

Finally, Yamamoto cleared his throat, and he let one cool, tentative hand drift down to cover the one that Gokudera had rested on his knee.

"You guys play a pretty dangerous game," he said.

Gokudera tensed, then shivered when he felt Yamamoto's fingers slide between his own.

"Yeah," he said, "we do."

Part III

"But Tsuna said nobody would care."

"That's because the Tenth is very kind and very forgiving of idiots who only know baseball." Gokudera reached up and straightened the collar of Yamamoto's shirt that stuck up over his black, tailored suit jacket. He hoped this gesture of grooming would disguise his own nervousness. "And I won't let you embarrass him."

Yamamoto smiled and kissed Gokudera's right hand, the one that he'd let linger at Yamamoto's neck. "Haha, I'll try."

Gokudera frowned a little, more evaluative than displeased, as he stood back and appraised his work. "You look okay," he said quietly, after so many years still uncomfortable giving compliments.

Yamamoto smiled brightly. "Thanks! I like the suit you picked out, even if I usually practice in my baseball uniform, and this one isn't as shiny as the one Michael Corleone wore."

Yamamoto winked, and Gokudera glanced away to smile. He hoped the baseball uniform comment was a joke. But the Corleone Family came up as often in their conversations (which they had come to have with some frequency) as their own Family did. He remembered all the times in the intervening years that he and Yamamoto had watched those old, scratched DVDs. All the times they shared awe in the drama; all the times, as they grew older, they shared horror at the senseless violence. At some point, they agreed that Yamamoto was Tom Hagen and Gokudera was Santino. There was something romantic to Gokudera about going down in a spray of bullets, though he'd never voice that fantasy. At some point, Yamamoto had taken to holding his hand every time that scene came on as if it assured his safety, and Gokudera hadn't stopped him. At some point, they kissed for the first time during that scene, all clumsy like they hadn't been thinking about it all night, all the warm shock of lips and the wet slide of tongue.

Yamamoto looked like he might be contemplating kissing him then in the restaurant, but his dad entered the room, and Gokudera pulled his hand away to straighten his own jacket. It could wait.

"Gokudera-kun! You're early!"

Gokudera smiled and nodded. "Yamamoto-san."

Yamamoto Tsuyoshi looked the same as he had when his son had first dragged Gokudera into that sushi restaurant. The same smile, the same lean face. The same broad, strong hands that clapped Gokudera on the back with such forceful affection. Gokudera supposed that kendo kept one in shape better than a lot of activities may.

"You boys--" because they would always be boys to Yamamoto Tsuyoshi "--look nice! Did Takeshi tell you? Fatty tuna for you two tonight!"

"Thank you, sir." Gokudera had learned enough to know there was no point in arguing once any Yamamoto had their heart set on generosity.

When the older man disappeared back into the kitchen, Gokudera turned to Yamamoto. Over the years, he'd hardly noticed how much older Yamamoto looked than he had when they'd met, but in this old haunt it was impossible not to evaluate the difference. Yamamoto's face still smiled, but his eyes were softer. It made Gokudera a little sad.

He turned his attention back to the task at hand.

"Look, Italy has forty centuries of wine history. They take it very seriously, and this meeting is very important for the Family. So you have to do this right and not offend anyone."

Yamamoto grinned and took a seat at one of the tables in the dining room of Take Sushi. "All right," he said, "teach me well. Hey, you think Tsuna will have us off someone with a gun hidden in the bathroom, like Al Pacino?"

Gokudera rolled his eyes and sat down across from him, an expanse of white tablecloth stretching between them. "I doubt it," he said. From his bag he retrieved a bottle of wine, slender and curved, and a corkscrew. He set them in the center of the table in front of Yamamoto.

"Chianti Classico," he said, lightly touching a finger to the top of the cork, "produced in central Tuscany from Sangiovese grapes. It's a red."

"A red," Yamamoto repeated.

"If you have a choice at the meeting, ask for a red. You don't really need to specify, but any Chianti is fine. The other Family will probably have a Brunello di Montalcino. But they don't sell that in lousy Japan, so we have to settle with this for practice."

"I like when you say Italian things," Yamamoto said, his chin resting in his hand, smiling up at Gokudera warmly, "you have a nice accent."

"I don't have an acc-- Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

Yamamoto laughed. "I am!"

Gokudera frowned. "Hey. I'm spending a lot of time on you for this. Take it seriously."

"Haha, is that how you talk to you girlfriends, Hayato?"

Gokudera scowled and tried to ignore the hopeful look on Yamamoto's face. Yamamoto wasn't his goddamn girlfriend. He hated it when the other man tried to put words to what they did.

"Anyway," he said, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle, his rings clinking against the glass, "this is pretty good stuff, pretty expensive, even if it's not the best."

He set the bottle back onto the table, and felt Yamamoto's eyes on him. The pause was awkward and heavy, not simply authoritative as Gokudera had hoped. It stretched on between them and, though Gokudera had a million things to teach him, he found he didn't quite know how to break through the silence.

"You really like nice things, don't you," Yamamoto asked him at last, his face serious for once. And Gokudera felt for a moment what other swordsmen must feel when they face Yamamoto in battle.

"Yeah, I do," Gokudera answered after a moment, meeting Yamamoto's eyes.

"Your wine," Yamamoto said, "your clothes, your jewelry, your Family members."

"What is that supposed to--"

"Sushi!"

Gokudera swallowed his words when Yamamoto's dad appeared at their tableside, a small boat of sushi in his hands. The air tingled between them, but Yamamoto Tsuyoshi did not seem to notice. Or he did, in that all-knowing, fatherly way he had, and he'd come out to defuse it. Devious old man.

"Hope you two don't mind sharing," he said, "oh! Wine! You didn't have to bring your own, Gokudera-kun. I would have given you some sake. You're old enough now, hahaha!"

"Gokudera's teaching me about Italian wine, Dad," Yamamoto said, his eyes still on Gokudera.

"Ah! Very good! When do you leave for Italy?"

"We leave tomorrow," Gokudera said, fingering the chopsticks on the table in front of him.

"Mmm," Yamamoto's dad said, a strong affirmative noise, his deep voice filling the heavy, awkward silence, "take good care of Takeshi for me, Gokudera-kun."

"Yes, sir," he said, looking down at the white tablecloth, "would you like to join us? Have some wine?"

Yamamoto's dad laughed. "Not for me. From my training in kendo, I know it is best to impart lessons one-on-one."

Gokudera smiled generously at his laugh -- something he'd grudgingly learned over the years -- and even shared it with Yamamoto who smiled back.

"You boys just enjoy your sushi."

Gokudera watched him leave, and watched Yamamoto the younger maneuver his chopsticks to a plump piece of sushi. It felt a bit too much like admitting defeat to a battle not yet begun, but he said, "Hey, truce, okay?"

It was a cautious question, spoken in a tone of voice that had only come to Gokudera with age and patience.

Yamamoto grinned. "Yeah," he said before popping the sushi into his mouth and smiling around it. Gokudera could see the rice sticking out from between his teeth.

"Sick," he said, tossing a chopstick at him like he used to do a lot, back when they were only dumb kids, and there was time for "see-food" jokes.

"So," Yamamoto said after he'd swallowed, "San Giannini grapes. What else?"

Gokudera sighed, but kept a slight smile. "Sangiovese. They make Chianti. They've got a high acidity, so Chiantis go well with food. Which is why you'll probably be drinking it with dinner at the meeting."

Yamamoto nodded.

Gokudera pulled the cellophane off the cork and tilted the bottle toward Yamamoto. "See the mold on the cork? That's a good thing. Means it was kept in humid storage."

Yamamoto looked at him skeptically, one dark brow raised.

"Hey. Your family makes people eat raw fish for a living. Don't judge."

Yamamoto laughed. "Okay, okay. What next?"

Gokudera picked up the corkscrew from the table. "Next, we open it. You probably won't have to do this yourself, but it's good to know. Corkscrew," he said, holding it up for Yamamoto to see, "you want to put the worm into the cork."

"Haha, 'worm.' Like tequila."

Gokudera frowned at him. "No. Not like tequila."

He twisted the auger down into the cork and folded the wings down. He wouldn't admit it, but he liked the way Yamamoto smiled at the wet, satisfying 'pop' sound the cork made when pulled away from the neck of the bottle. Such a child, after all these years.

Gokudera could still feel Yamamoto's eyes on him as he reached across the table and took his glass. He placed it next to his own and began to pour.

"Never all the way," he said, glancing up, though his head was still tilted down at the glasses, "maybe a third full."

Yamamoto nodded as he regarded the ritual. "It smells good," he said.

"It'll smell better in a second after it breathes. Not as sharp."

Yamamoto reached a broad hand out and ran a finger down the stem of his glass. Gokudera waved him away.

"Idiot, don't drink it yet."

Yamamoto laughed. "Okay," he said, but kept his fingers delicately resting on the stem, "how long do we wait?"

Gokudera paused. "Now should be fine," he conceded.

Yamamoto grinned and pulled his glass to rest in front of him. The wine moved in the glass, then settled. "Still such a geek," Yamamoto said.

"It's just a hobby. Now, hold it up. Like this."

Gokudera lifted his glass in illustration, the stem pinched between finger and thumb as if he were holding a rose, consciously avoiding the thorns. Yamamoto followed his example.

"And tilt it," he said, "look at the color and the clarity, and pretend to know what you're looking for."

Yamamoto angled his head forward and adopted a contemplative expression for a moment before his mouth twitched into a smirk. "It looks sort of pink against the tablecloth," he said, "like that lipstick Haru wears when Tsuna's around."

Gokudera smiled, lopsided. "That's brilliant, Yamamoto," he said, "just don't say it out loud."

Yamamoto caught his eyes for a moment. "Was that sarcasm," he asked with amusement.

"Maybe."

"I like it when you're like this, you know," he said, reaching across the table to capture Gokudera's fingers, "having fun and smiling."

"I'm not having fun," he said, fighting against the smile quirking his lips.

"Of course not. Look, Hayato, I didn't mean to start a fight earlier. I just mean that you should relax sometimes, you know? That you can relax. We're all looking out for Tsuna. And I'm sure he doesn't want you to be so high-strung all the time."

Gokudera stared at him for a moment, his glass still held aloft and inclined away from him.

"Anyway," he continued, plowing through the weight of Yamamoto's misguided concern, "if you have a chance, you can kind of swirl it here, just once or twice. People used to think that if the wine left trails down the glass, it was really good. But so many other factors go into--"

"Hayato. Are you listening to me?"

Gokudera sighed and set his glass down. "No," he said, "are you listening to me? See, tomorrow we have to leave. You need to take this seriously."

"And you need to take me seriously. Look, I don't know what you think of me as a friend, even after all this time. And that's okay. But I know you don't think much of me when it comes to protecting Tsuna."

Gokudera fumbled for words. Yamamoto pursued few things this aggressively and, when he did, Gokudera was usually at his side, fighting toward the same goal. Combi-play. He didn't like being opposed to the force that Yamamoto could command.

Yamamoto stood and scraped his chair noisily around the table, setting it down beside Gokudera.

"I promise," he said, grabbing onto Gokudera's hands, "that I will not let Tsuna get hurt. I swear."

Gokudera pulled one hand from Yamamoto's strong grip and took a loud gulp of wine. It burned down his throat, and he fought back a cough.

Yamamoto continued. "If it takes knowing about wine or mafia movies or whatever else you need me to do to prove it to you, that's fine. Just believe me."

Gokudera licked the wine off his lips. He felt a little heady at the alcohol in his empty stomach.

"You," he said, resting his elbow on the table and pressing his forehead to his palm, "are such an idiot."

Yamamoto leaned forward and rested his head on the back of Gokudera's neck. "I know."

"And clingy," he said, "get off."

"No."

"Your funeral," Gokudera said. Something was very comforting about being nestled so close to someone else. It was disconcerting. "You know why people like me like wine, Yamamoto?"

"Because it makes you look sophisticated?"

Gokudera snorted. "Yeah, maybe. Probably. But you know how it's good to let wine sit in its bottle forever, right? How it needs to sort of grow into itself? It takes a while for it to get ready for people, you know?"

He tilted his face to Yamamoto, and Yamamoto smiled a little.

"Hey," he said, "it seems like there's a moral to this or something. Should I be taking notes?"

"Shut up," Gokudera said, but he said it weakly. "What I mean is, sometimes I'm not so good at talking to people, okay? I don't try to teach you because I don't trust you. I do. I teach you because you're pretty good at this already and I think these lessons could make you better."

And Yamamoto grinned down at him and slid a palm around the back of his neck, cool fingers scritching into his hair. "Thank you," he said, and he looked like a teenager again: sprinting from baseball practice flushed and triumphant, chattering on the walk home from school, staring earnestly at piano keys, watching scary gangster movies as if they were real.

Gokudera smiled in return, something exhausted and relieved. Yamamoto's simple answer was enough.

"And I do take it seriously," he said, pressing a kiss between Gokudera's eyebrows, "I just like to have fun at the same time."

Gokudera tilted his head up and kissed his mouth. "Idiot," he said, because he could think of nothing else, "but you really should learn this wine thing. It's...fun. Once you get into it."

Yamamoto smiled, rested their noses together. "Later. Teach me on the plane. Or in the hotel room. Or whenever. Right now, you're being nice and I should take advantage of it."

"I am not."

"You know, my old room is right upstairs. I bet you want to see it." He tilted his head to lay a line of kisses from Gokudera's earlobe to the base of his neck.

"I've been in your old room," Gokudera said, his face flushing at memories that had faded but had not gone entirely.

"Not for a long time," Yamamoto said, his breath warm against Gokudera's neck, "years, I'd guess."

"Recently enough to remember what a small bed you have. It's ridiculous."

"Then we'll have to stay close, won't we?"

"Takeshi..."

Yamamoto gripped both of Gokudera's hands and smiled at him. "Thank you for that," he said, "really. Now, come on."

Gokudera was hoisted out of his seat and dragged toward the stairs.

"Dad," Yamamoto yelled over his shoulder as they ascended, "Gokudera wants to see my old baseball cards. RBIs and batting averages and stuff. I've got some things to teach him, so we'll be a while."

Gokudera didn't think those old excuses had fooled anyone even back when they had been in high school and would sneak quietly upstairs after yet another viewing of The Godfather, back when Yamamoto had collected baseball cards like they held the secret to life. He was fairly sure that the excuse wasn't fooling anyone now, but Yamamoto Tsuyoshi waved one hand out of the kitchen, giving them something like his blessing.

Silly kids, he thought as he went back to washing dishes, they have so much to learn.

Post-Script: Great Teacher Takeshi

"I told you, it doesn't work like that."

"Haha, it does, it does. You just have to..."

"I will not!"

"Hayato, play along. If you just bend you knees like this..."

Smack.

"I can do it myself."

"All right, haha. Just remember to bend."

"Do I look like some kind of idiot?"

"Haha, no! Hey, what happened to you being nice? I liked that better."

"Just be quiet, will you...oh."

"Mm, just like that. You've got it."

And that's how you hit it out of the park.