The Likely Lads, a katekyo hitman reborn! fanfic

The Likely Lads

They begin in the streets of Italy, young and hopeless. Their feet echo in narrow alleys when they run, and Yamamoto's feeling lost until Gokudera hisses at him to follow, and he does - he watches the stretching shadow of his 'partner' while it hangs in front, looms over the cracked ground, he watches Gokudera holding his side with a pale, shaky hand, feeling his own wounds weighing him down. "Not a good start," is the greeting Reborn gives them, looking entirely serious underneath the black of his fedora. He sighs, turns around and gestures over his shoulder for them to come with him. Yamamoto and Gokudera still pant as they trail behind, and the second they're back inside, Gokudera yanks on his arm roughly and regards the long cut across the skin with disapproval. Then he shoves at Yamamoto's shoulders before he leaves - as though it's his fault.

That's their first mission.

"It gets easier," Dino tells him, when he sees Yamamoto's tentative smile, the bad job someone made of bandaging and plastering him up. "Really." Yamamoto smiles because he isn't certain what else to do. He doesn't particularly like the uneasy feeling in his gut; he didn't like it the night before either, when it tormented him awake whenever he'd drift into a half-sleep, as absent-minded as ever. Until breakfast he'd spent most of his time shifting restlessly beneath the covers, counting sheep, counting the time until breafast on the clock. Sometimes he glanced at Shigure Kintoki, sheathed in the corner, clean, inconspicuous. He'd always end up burying his face into his pillow afterwards, eyes shut, lips tight together. That's why he waits all morning on Gokudera, for assurance, maybe empathy. Simple minded people didn't comprehend complexities well - Gokudera thinks this is definite when he rubs his eyes and blinks, again, at Yamamoto's wide awake, exhausted face.

He frowns thinly, doesn't say a word, doesn't elaborate on why exactly he takes the seat across from him when he'd prefer the sitting room, he'd prefer the privacy.

Yamamoto gives him a taut smile. "Sleep well?" he asks, his back stiff, his gaze searching. Gokudera wonders when and how he managed to start seeing through Yamamoto. He doesn't think he likes it, so he stares into his coffee, instead.

"Fine," he lies. But when Uri enters, purring proudly, victoriously lifting his head, Gokudera looks at his hands until the cat slinks away again, and Yamamoto sees right through him.

Yamamoto thinks the problem with Gokudera's fighting is still - still - teamwork. When they're assigned together for practice, mindless training, Gokudera takes it head on, and Yamamoto sets his pace and marches behind, because that's all he's ever allowed to do. He thinks another might be his constant worrying, and how he's always staring at Yamamoto's fresh scars like unforgiving eyes on him, as though it isn't the swordsman's fault after all. There's always a barrier in place, and Gokudera is always determined to need sense beaten into him every time that it doesn't work like that, before he forgets, again, that it never works like that. Reborn is stoic while he watches them both argue, sips at his tea mundanely, and does nothing to interfere. The relief is vague in his expression when Yamamoto takes his own turn and says, "Stop toying with your own life." Let me in. It's not the first time, they both remember that much. Maybe that's why Gokudera silently strides all the way back to the start position, and waits on Yamamoto to join him this time.

It's a month since they left Japan now. Yamamoto's used to a hard bed, a burnt breakfast, uncountable amounts of missed calls and new messages - his screen is constantly lit up with the name Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad and questions like what's Italy like, or when will you be home. The summer is colder in Italy, he thinks, but it never stops him waking up early every morning to take a run, or play catch with Tsuna. Sometimes, he sees Gokudera go outside with a book. Sometimes, he's bold enough to venture into the garden with him, spread out on the grass beside him and lie still, because it's the only way Gokudera won't complain. Maybe he's stupid enough to try conversation every once in a while. He does it today, out of boredom, out of itching curiousity. The thought of leaving Gokudera alone in his homeland scares Yamamoto, just like the expression on the others face when, out of the blue, Reborn told them they were leaving for Europe. Yamamoto's homesick, sure, and Tsuna is never off the phone with his mother or without I-pin or Lambo clinging to his legs, but Gokudera has it the worst. He hardly stomachs the fine dining, the landscape of his home. He imprisoned himself in his room the whole first month. Tsuna was never away from meetings enough to notice anything but pale fingers prodding plates away, thin frowns, sickly eyes. Yamamoto seen him panicking on the streets of Rome, heard his breathing loud and wavering, felt his shoulders tense next to his own. A hand had snagged in Yamamoto's shirt cuff, and he'd said nothing, he'd pretended to notice nothing.

"Oh, fuck," is what Gokudera greets him with when he waltzes out the back door, almost squinting up at Yamamoto."Why is it always you." He sighs to himself. Slides his hair behind his ear. It falls back into a curtain over his face again when he leans down to read.

Then Yamamoto remembers how to talk. Forgets when he sees Gokudera's long fingers absentmindedly tugging at a daisy, his throat inexplicably dry.

He sits himself next to Gokudera, amused at the glare he's receiving for it. "When Tsuna gets back," Yamamoto begins, a dirty trick, because suddenly Gokudera's book isn't interesting whatsoever, "we should come out here and have a game. Everyone." He knows from the painful expression on Gokudera's face the suggestion is an instant from rejection, so he pushes it further, he's dizzied by the edge. "He'd like that."

Gokudera pauses, winces. Sighs again. Yamamoto's aware of the fact giving isn't exactly a trait Gokudera's known for, and Yamamoto keeps jolting him past his limit. The boy spent days with him in the Namimori Library, preparing him for exams; he reluctantly wound bandages around him in the middle of nowhere; he's spent years enduring Yamamoto's presence. "For the Tenth," he always said, tapping textbooks, biting gauze apart. Now he let's Yamamoto sit with him, no pair of eyes around to see. Progress, Yamamoto's thinking, and it sounds ridiculous even just in his head.

The third mission is messy. Like practice, they work alongside - it's the first time in battle, really. They obviously haven't ironed enough of the kinks out, but it works, works well enough that Yamamoto is certain he'll feel horrible for another week when he re-sheathes a scratched Shigure Kintoki, legs a little unstable. Gokudera's clutching onto his shoulder, his weight an inevitable catastrophe when Yamamoto's having problems on his own two feet. "Shit," Gokudera hisses. His right leg is lifted, hovering above the ground, blood sweeping down his shin and thigh, dropping to the floor from his knee. Yamamoto's mind isn't registering anything properly, and he feels himself think in hazy patches, feels the fear in the others grip when the swordsman stumbles backwards accidentally. "Yamamoto," Gokudera says sharply, then Yamamoto remembers how to walk.

A bumpy road home isn't exactly the best idea in this particular situation, but Gokudera orders it, tells him it's quicker, then curses against Yamamoto's ear when, as expected, it hurts like fucking hell. His foot drags a little in exhaustion. Yamamoto thinks he might have hauled him over his shoulder and carried him back if he wasn't in similar shape, so when he hears another growl of 'Jesus fucking Christ', he bites his bottom lip and endures. It's a break in willpower that his hand slips onto Gokudera's bony waist, positioned to lift. He helps Gokudera all the way inside and offers to assist him all the way to his room, has a laughing fit at Gokudera's flushing face, wide, wide eyes, and his snarl of disagreement. Romario begins tending to their wounds before Yamamoto has the chance to convince him otherwise.

The other men talk in Italian to one another. Yamamoto is pleased he picks some things up - mostly curses, a few little guesses. When Gokudera catches him staring and slaps him on his healing arm, and Yamamoto makes out 'Idiota', laughing a little. Dino's bodyguard finishes with Gokudera's leg, moves to Yamamoto; the body beside him doesn't move away. Gokudera looks at the new scars through the corners of his eyes, looking forcefully calm. "It doesn't hurt," he says for some reason he can't understand, when Gokudera scowls at the alcohol cleaning his wounds. It nips, bites. The first time, Yamamoto had clenched a fist in shock at the sting.

"I don't give a shit," is the mumbled reply. He keeps on watching and wincing, anyway.

The pain in Yamamoto's stomach takes longer than he estimated to leave; Gokudera's fallen asleep beside him before he feels the concern to voice it. He smiles at Romario. "I feel kind of sick."

Dino's bodyguard packs up his kit without even bothering to look at him. His suit has lost it's crispness in the early hours of the morning, and his polished shoes are scruffed. "Don't worry, kid," he says in choppy, dusty Japanese, "It goes away."

It doesn't. Yamamoto ends up passing out on the couch too, close to breakfast.

The last day in Italy.

Yamamoto hums while he packs, earlier than need be. He sits on his full suitcase when he's done, and regards the bare guest-room admiringly, wearing a lazy grin. He spends the wait for everyone else waking up on his phone, talking to his father, talking about dinner tomorrow, and how lucky it is he comes home right in time for the game. Tsuna knocks on his door after a while, tells him, "Breakfast," sounding like everyone else has lately - exhausted. There's a short silence; Yamamoto's staring at the words Call Ended in a daze, suddenly deliriously happy. "Yamamoto?" Tsuna calls again in his parenting voice, "Are you awake?"

He blinks. Calls, "One minute," and Tsuna's footsteps shuffle out of earshot.

For a moment or two, he helplessly stands, thinking of his father, his fresh sins that bleed into his shirts sometimes after he's careless rewrapping. He's glad nothing's marked him too obviously; he might have to walk a little faster to his room after a shower now, or wait for the scars on his chest to fade before he even has the guts. Creaking footsteps up the stairs, at the door. Someone knocks a rapid five times. "Moron, your food's getting cold." Unlike Tsuna, Gokudera doesn't take privacy into account, he simply bangs the door open, then looks at Yamamoto, distinctly unimpressed and condescending and exhausted. "Well?" he barks after another seconds silence. "What the fuck are you waiting on?"

"Haha, sorry Gokudera." He walks over, wearing a grin. "Nice pyjamas."

Paw decoration all over the trousers. He's extremely lucky Gokudera's in too good a mood to punch him full-force in the stomach for it.

A family breakfast for the first time in the whole trip, to Yamamoto, had sounded sort of lovely. Simple-mindedly, he pictured people getting along splendidly, having full, bountiful conversations about little things like Dino's surprisingly passable cooking, or maybe even Xanxus' ten-times creepier haircut. He pictured laughing. Lot's of laughing. All in all, it ends up relatively surreal; in a bad or good way, he can't exactly tell.

Nobody says anything. Plates go on screeching with spoons and forks - the tension is broken by Ryohei's disgruntled yell of 'THESE UTENSILS ARE EXTREMELY WEIRD', and Hibari's following, 'lower your decibels or I'll bite you to death.' Which seems unlikely, seen as he's having almost as hard a time readjusting as the boxer. In the end, they both descended lower beneath the primitiveness of stabbing food to get a bite and picked their pancakes, their bacon, their goddamn milkless cereal with their hands, taking unmanageably humungous bites.

Gokudera makes sure to throw a look at Yamamoto that means if you even think it. So he copies the way Gokudera eats his tofu - Gokudera's always eating tofu - intent. Frighteningly intent.

After a while, he realizes he's really just staring at Gokudera's mouth, with little subtlety.

"What," Gokudera snaps a whole three minutes later, through lips a lot pinker than Yamamoto can remember yesterday, or any day before. Yamamoto is startled, shoots him a faltering smile before he goes on attempting to master the fork.

The rest of the table give exchange a number of looks. Then they fall back into silence.

"Well," Ryohei says, swirling his orange-juice, looking uncharacteristically bored, "This is suckingly awkward."

Tsuna is still staring at Yamamoto, the most brilliant shade of red covering his face. "Oh god," he breathes, and this appalls Gokudera, who aims a violent kick underneath the table.

"No footsie," Dino says diplomatically, but he bursts into laughter when Gokudera and Tsuna stop functioning all together and stare at him in awe and disgust. Hibari just yawns. Ryohei turns to Yamamoto and says, "Man." Chrome smiles to herself and sips her tea. Lambo is still fast asleep, head in his thankfully empty bowl, and Bianchi's eyes are making it clear that she has a great desire to lunge across the table and murder Yamamoto with her bare hands; she simply, calmly watches him over her sunglasses. Mouths, I will murder you with my bare hands.

Yamamoto smiles at her as thought he doesn't understand. He takes a drink of his milk, this time using more discretion when he glances up fleetingly to find Gokudera with his mouth around the spoon, looking thoughtful. Their gazes meet momentarily, and Yamamoto smiles, again. He likes that it makes Gokudera blush. Like he said: surreal.

Dino embraces them all goodbye at the airport - sans Hibari, of course, who glares at him warningly and shakes his hand instead, which seems to take enough effort itself. Then he hands Tsuna a bag in case he's sick on the flight again, like a good brother. "Don't worry," he says all the car-ride over, all the way to the boarding room, before he leaves them there as a congregation of children - Bianchi left to buy Lambo a Toblerone five minutes earlier.

"You," Hibari starts flatly, pointing at his 'boss' with unmasked dislike, black eyes flicking to the bag and Tsuna's discoloured face, "Are not sitting next to me." He yanks Chrome's ticket out of her hand, and then he walks in front of them, and pushes the stewardess into a wall when she sweetly says to him for the fourth time they aren't boarding yet.

Tsuna turns even paler. He's holding I-pin's hand like a vice in the nerves, and starts hounding over where Bianchi is, how long it takes to get chocolate, when is the next flight. Someone talks out of the speakers, a soothing woman's voice, and nobody understands; they all turn to Gokudera. "Boarding now," he mutters in Japanese, and then checks for his sister, looking grumpy, but less than usual. "I'll wait here a minute, Tenth."

"Gokudera-kun," Tsuna squeaks, then Yamamoto puts his hands on his shoulders, looking cheerful, assuring.

"Come on Tsuna. Gokudera's got it handled."

So four of them board and leave Gokudera standing in the middle of a rush-hour terminal.

They're a second from taking off when last-minute passengers manage to slip onboard, along with two particularly distraught airport staff. "No worries, folks," one of them says unconvincingly, while Yamamoto catches Gokudera sliding mini-dynamite back into his bag, shooting the two staff a sombre glare.

"IS IT THEM," Tsuna shouts frantically from behind him, and when Yamamoto says yes, he can almost feel the uneasiness drain from his friends body.

The flight is going well for a whole three hours. Yamamoto's bored of his DS, sits tapping his fingers on the chairs arm, when Gokudera appears at the end of his seat row, looking undoubtedly furious, gesturing for him to come over. With slight difficulty, Yamamoto sidesteps the passengers legs, and meets Gokudera's haggard glower with a bright grin. "What's up?"

"We're switching."

"Huh?" Yamamoto blinks.

"The fucking cow. Fuck. Move, we're switching." White fingers are twitching at his pockets. Green eyes are dreary, with some crazed wideness. Lips are pressed.

He's seen this before. "You can't smoke here."

Gokudera gives him the dirtiest expression he's managed in a while and practically throws him back at his unwanted seat.

Home.

Yamamoto and his father don't bother moving off the couch until the light of day stops spreading over the carpet and shadows are creeping from the windows, leaving them in darkness, in the vague blue glare of the television. Around half of Namimori are stomping through the town in horrendously bad moods at the CLOSED sign on the door of the ever reliable Takesushi, but Yamamoto thinks a little self-indulgence is okay, every once in a while. So he stays up most of the school night playing cards with his father on the coffee table, in a horrendously, horrendously good mood.

"Take that look off your face," Gokudera hisses at him under his breath in the morning, then he smiles at Tsuyoshi Yamamoto and greets him politely, he even imitates the mans bow. The fact Yamamoto finds this strangely hilarious doesn't help matters, either.

The better half of a month is spent in a more familiar reality. Yamamoto balances his time from working at Takesushi and visiting Tsuna; a few times, he takes bad to the withdrawal, and finds himself on Namimori park, clutching his umbrella like a bat. Fewer times, he has the audacity to ask a handful of the old team to his middle school with him, and he comes home, dirty and grinning. He doesn't know if he imagines his father beaming a little brighter then than when he comes home from Tsuna's, late and pensive. The days after, he always sits straighter on the Sawada's couch, takes his tea with more flourish, talks to his family with more care. He can never find the right way to apologize.

It feels too much like lying, he thinks, so when the 16th rolls around, he gives it up cold turkey - not determination, not even his choice. Reborn starts handing them out missions again. He finds it harder to be carefree on the pitch when a war wages in his mind, when he knows he's too old for it at twenty-one, as ridiculous as it still may sound.

Real loyalty: Gokudera quits smoking after one afterthought comment from Iemitsu. In front of the Tenth, anyway. Yamamoto's the only one who sees him taking long drags after work nowadays, looking unrecognizable, looking like a man. His shadow always towers over Yamamoto, looms, threatens. The smoke clouding the face always reminds him who it is he's talking to, though; ridiculous as it sounds.

"A scratch," Yamamoto says. He smiles, lopsided.

Gokudera gives him a flat stare. The fabric of his shirt is still wet from Yamamoto's blood. "Once," Gokudera's muttering to Doctor Shamal, in a tone he must think the other teen can't hear. Understandable, since the Rain guardian can't stop his head falling onto his chest every so often, but he stays awake long enough to hear Gokudera repeat: "Just this once. Really." He even makes out the beginning of the doctor's sigh, and the press of his firm hand on his aching side-

and then he's out.

After, Gokudera doesn't speak to him a whole fortnight. The ninth attempt at engaging him in conversation starts smoother than any other; the Storm guardian actually acknowledges his presence.

And then he punches him in the face. Ring hand.

"You preach about fucking teamwork and then you go and do something stupid like that?" he snarls. Yamamoto's still swaying on his feet, more from surprise than pain, but he knows from experience that's his friend is on one of his gentler settings. His nose hardly even bleeds this time. He tries to keep his head lifted and appear to be listening to Gokudera at the same time, a task much easier in theory. When he gets his clearest view, it's apparent Gokudera's furious, and the two weeks of it building inside of him probably hasn't helped either. Or the way, for a second, Yamamoto remembers something completely irrelevant and starts looking at the others mouth. "For no reason whatsoever, you jumped into my fight and now - I have to feel bad about you looking shit." Yamamoto thinks it's funny this is true in other ways - every punch Gokudera's thrown at him in the past eight years added to the others would now account for the crooked shape of his nose.

"I, uh," he begins, and all of a sudden the blood pours in one heavy flow down his chin, "I'm sorry. I." Have no idea what to say. He never once thought he'd be in this position, he'd be the more reckless one.

It scares him a little, how Gokudera's matured in a month and a half. "Dumbass," he says after a pause, then he scowls; Yamamoto knows he's forgiven.

"More careful next time," he says thickly, upturning his head further.

"You better be," Gokudera mumbles, and then he takes hold of Yamamoto's wrist and leads him to the bathroom to clean up, cursing under his breath.

Their last mission together goes practically faultless. Their heavy breathing matches, and Gokudera looks terrifyingly awake when their eyes meet, the flame's on his boxes and ring's dying slowly, losing him back into the darkness. The creases and folds of his hoodie mesh when he falls, right against Yamamoto's chest. Panic floods the other guardian's body, and he tugs the smaller boy up by his shoulders, searches his face for consciousness. He sighs in relief at the uneven blinking of Gokudera's eyes, a dampened sea-green.

"Christ," Gokudera groans, outdrawn, a howl, with his pinkpink lips on Yamamoto's ear. "My leg. Again. Christ."

He allows himself to be pulled against Yamamoto, a warning grunt when their chests slide. His trouser leg is tucked up - when Yamamoto presses lightly on the still wounded, still healing skin of his ankle, Gokudera hisses at him. It's bruised in a swirl of purple and black, looks unreal on its paper white canvas. Gokudera starts insisting he can walk, over and over, and Yamamoto just shakes his head. "Teamwork," he says with a smile, he teases, and after lighting up, Gokudera blows smoke into his face, clearly unamused.

It takes an extra twenty minutes to get home when he's helping Gokudera limp across the streets. Yamamoto is silent the whole way.

He's never felt so frightened.

Gokudera must be feeling it too. He takes some days off, rests, on his couch, under his bedsheets and laptop, after much convincing from both Tsuna and Bianchi. Yamamoto, Tsuna and Ryohei visit him with movies on Friday night.

Cliche: Yamamoto and Gokudera end up alone at the credits because Tsuna's mother called for him, and Ryohei's sister needed picked up from Hana's. The film must hit home; it's something about war, a lot of subtitles, a lot of scenes Yamamoto would rather not see after the night before. When the last soldier dies, Gokudera's already pushing him against the cushions and latching onto his collarbone with his mouth. "Moron," he keeps breathing. It's cold on Yamamoto's kissed skin, it's louder when hands start tracing the bandages, and fear is boiling inside of him for reasons he doesn't really understand. He doesn't want to see Gokudera's scars, or Gokudera to see his. His breathing labours, his fingers trace the worn flesh of Gokudera's bad leg. It's all he feels. Not the kiss, the caress. Just dry blood pressing into the fine lines of his skin.

Then he wakes up. Laboured breath. Still fearful. Cliche.

He forgets for a whole forty seconds, what he was dreaming, the actors, the colours - red, on his fingertips. Sea-green.

Gokudera's fast asleep beside him when he comes to the conclusion that he's only gotten dumber with age.

The next day is the longest he's ever endured.

This could have been easily remedied if Gokudera hadn't chosen to wear his particularly slim-fitting skull t-shirt that always showed a sliver too much of pale waist. Or if he'd manned-up and said something to his friend that didn't begin with, "UHHHH."

"If I can do it, you can," Tsuna tells him quietly while they're still congregating the streets of Namimori. He indicates his head at Kyoko. Yamamoto smiles, shrugs.

"We'll see."

The first solo missions aren't very clean-cut.

Yamamoto staggers down the street, passes his own house. Bangs on a neighbouring door. His head is spinning, his side is aching. When Gokudera answers, he feels healed.

Before either of them can say a thing, he pulls Gokudera outside and kisses him for the first time - on the forehead.

Every part of his body tenses. Yamamoto feels it on his hands, his chin. His chest, when Gokudera inches closer, just a little. "You said you'd be careful." A hand presses light on his side, light enough that Yamamoto doesn't know if it's there, doesn't have the will to pull away from their position to check. He makes a little note in the back of his head: don't make stupid promises. He presses his lips to Gokudera's temple, again, savouring the calm, the world at peace. A slender finger is tracing the blade of Shigure Kintoki behind his back, and he awakes to reality.

"Idiot." Then the door slams in front of him.

He doesn't push his luck much further. Little things, nudges and pushes and shoves, just so Gokudera knows, so Yamamoto can keep some sanity and tell himself it really happened. He's not the mind game type; this is all about assurance. Raking fingernails on his wrist, delicately, maybe an attempt to soothe, is assurance. Saying soft spoken words to earn a cheap blush is assurance. The surge when Gokudera seems far behind on the situation; it's all unease, it's all anxiety. Yamamoto thought he was too old for something like that, now, the teenage romance, the taunts of do you and don't you.

In the middle of the night, he's finally certain. It's not terribly romantic; Gokudera's in his room, bleeding on his sheets, against him, mouth hot on his jaw, his cheek, his own. He looks angry. Yamamoto's seen this before, the telltale signs of a storm.

"Moron," he keeps breathing. Warm. Alive. The sound of his voice and the feel of it on his chest is like electricity, drives shivers up a tan back.

Yamamoto wants to tell him that he's scared, too, but he isn't sure how.

All he can do is kiss back.

He doesn't want this to be their first kiss. He coerces Gokudera into taking a walk, just them, and drags him all the way to the Namimori shrine.

Tradition, he supposes. He wants more conventionalism, more tenderness than Gokudera will allow him. "I - " he starts, like he's seen in a thousand movies.

"Don't you dare try that shit on me," Gokudera tells him, looking unimpressed. So Yamamoto pushes him back onto the grass and tries something else.

The next two months are all college, all family, all sneaking and soft and novel. There's so much ease, in the short, brisk walk to Gokudera's, the way he's dragged inside with a lazy hand. They fool around until Gokudera talks him into studying, or Yamamoto talks him into getting some dinner, or Tsuna knocks his tentative knock and they shoot apart instinctively, giddy with worry and thrill. Tsuna's making time for them now, out of principle, and apparently the black eye he's sporting is from Reborn himself after he confronted the tutor about his family, their closeness, what was left of it. He breaks another promise - convinces his boss to play some baseball and some football; the shock of his improvement is the first time Yamamoto's drawn a blank on the pitch, but he guesses it makes sense. It doesn't feel so bad, not when Gokudera's starts lighting up again whenever he gets the chance. Yamamoto always breathes it in, as much as his lungs can take; the smoke familiar, fascinating.

Missions are another story. Bearable, at least.

Gokudera's endlessly busy studying; he spares a glance as often as possible at the limp, the wince. Drags a thumb over the bandages. "You said you'd be careful," he'll breath.

Yamamoto tries not to feel the gauze in his hands when he holds him, tries not to hear the grunt when he does it a little too tight. "Sorry," he'll say, because he isn't certain what else to say.

When the base is constructed, they're common knowledge, they're a running joke. This could be Gokudera's fault, what with him coming back drunk from a concert with Ryohei and, in front of their whole family, jamming his tongue as far as it could go down Yamamoto's throat. Yamamoto remembers feeling lightheaded, some of it from asphyxiation, some of it from severe ecstasy that took the feeling from his toes. He remembers Hibari stating a mundane, "Finally," and everyone else taking turns at explaining how 'they already knew it.'

It's a little mind-blowing, how simple sharing the bed is, or taking a step to the right so Gokudera can brush his teeth too. It's often that he'll throw an arm around Gokudera in a meeting, watching a movie, having a discussion with everyone else. It's equally as often that Gokudera will throw him athat hand better not move face, which must be reflex after a lot of failed attempts at exhibitionism they mutually agree to never speak about.

It's so simple, good-morning kisses over coffee and paperwork. Yamamoto says this, careful with wording.

"Goddamnit, you're stupid," Gokudera replies, hiding his red face behind his mug. One hand is still in Uri's fur. The cat purrs, nuzzles his palm.

Yamamoto takes the seat beside him and throws an arm around his shoulders.

Skip a year, two, after work.

Yamamoto's swinging his sword back over his shoulder. He grins, leans his chin on Gokudera's shoulder - peeks a frown. "Grab a drink?" he suggests, and Gokudera shrugs, puts out his cigarette. When they start walking, Yamamoto slings an arm around his waist, tries to calm his heart, tries not to look back at the chaos they're leaving behind. It doesn't take much effort anymore - Gokudera's fiddling with his rings in a distracting manner, fixing his glasses and making Yamamoto trip on his own feet. He snorts softly when he catches Yamamoto looking.

"You're paying."

The silence behind them feels like it's creeping closer. Threatening. A cold, heavy hand could reach out, catch onto his ankle, his trouser leg and sink him into what he may deserve. The warmth of the night startles him, the comforting touch of Gokudera's lips on his jaw, fleeting.

Yamamoto pulls him closer and laughs into his hair. Gokudera sighs, "Idiota," then squeezes his hand, firm. Quietly, he says, "You were good back there."

Selective hearing. The swordsman says, "You looked good too."

Gokudera pushes him away in embarrassment; Yamamoto catches the smile.

I MEANT TO WRITE TWO-THOUSAND MAXIMUM.

WHUT HAHAHAHA.

Disclaimer: Not mines. Name from a Libertines song.

AN: For Nush, who set the prompt in the first place, for entertaining me non-stop and working ridiculously hard amounts, non-stop. Speaking of selective hearing, sorry that I obviously heard white noise when you told me LESS ANGST. There's fluff in there, a heap of it, really. I hope you like it, bb, and excuse the extreme lateness of the whole thing. I had to stop a 30 Rock marathon to end it, that's a miracle in itself. Kind of for Gokudera too, seeing as it's - COINCIDENTALLY - his birthday. And because I missed writing this OTP so hard.

Ha, the days I fic are the ones right after returning to school. Timewise, I don't get how this is even possible. BUT DEAR GOD, at least there's some explanation for all the angst. :|

Thanks a lot if you read. Love went into this fic, people. Idiot love, but love nonetheless.