Title: Conflagration
Pairings: Hibari/Yamamoto
Summary: There is something strange going on with Yamamoto.
Notes: Adult for smut; violence as foreplay; this is basically a love-letter to the essential hotness of Yamamoto. 4309 words.

Conflagration

Namimori is Kyouya's territory and it is only natural that he patrol it, roaming its streets in the patterns that make sense to him (and perhaps only him) to assure himself that all is as it should be. It soothes something in Kyouya to do this, to pace along a street and see it tidy and clean and the people on it going about their business in a seemly fashion. (He does not understand people; he might even admit this to himself, in certain moods. He doesn't understand them, but he knows how they ought to behave, and because of his firmly held convictions on this score, so does a fairly high percentage of the population of Namimori.)

If Namimori is his territory, then the schools are his domain and the students his subjects. He rules them with two tonfa and a stubborn refusal to accept anything but instant obedience. (He tries, anyway, though Sawada and his little pack have made that increasingly difficult since Kyouya first took notice of him in junior high. Kyouya justifies this exception to himself because Sawada is developing into something with halfway credible fangs, and he will be more interesting to fight and put in his proper place if Kyouya permits him to continue developing.)

(He strictly refuses to think about the possibility that it is he who has become a part of Sawada's pack, because such a thing would not be seemly.)

Namimori is Kyouya's. He knows it intimately, and knows when something is out of place, knows it in his bones and blood and breath before he knows it consciously—(is aware, in fact, that Sawada's dog Gokudera monitors him because of that, like some sort of human barometer)—

And so he knows there is something amiss with Yamamoto Takeshi.

It is a Sunday and heat lies on Namimori as heavy as a hand. Most people are doing as is only appropriate: sitting on shady verandas, fanning themselves, and sipping cool drinks. It is the season for cotton yukata and zarusoba and moving slowly, but Yamamoto is ignoring all that. It is Sunday and Yamamoto should not be anywhere but at home with his father or somewhere in Sawada's orbit, but instead he is on school grounds instead and he is alone again.

It is the again that Kyouya does not understand in this aberrant behavior of Yamamoto's. Will he, nil he, Kyouya knows the patterns of Sawada's people. Yamamoto is not a solitary creature—he is a pack animal. It is his natural state to be with others—usually Sawada and Gokudera, or in his father's sphere, or (less often, these days) the baseball team. For Yamamoto to seek solitude—for him to have sought it as often as he has done lately—is not what is appropriate for Yamamoto. (It is something Kyouya has struggled with, this thought that there might be multiple ways for people to do what is appropriate, all contingent on things beyond his personal control or comprehension.)

Nevertheless, here Yamamoto is again: he is on the sports field and has a bucket full of baseballs that he is methodically throwing at a target. The bucket sits on the ground at his feet; Yamamoto reaches into it, retrieves a ball, draws his arm back as he pivots on one foot and curls around the ball before he lets it fly. The entire motion is smooth, seamless—stoop, wind-up, release, follow-through, like this is some strange sports kata. It doesn't have anything to do with the baseball team, as far as Kyouya can determine such things—Yamamoto and he are the only ones on school grounds, and besides, there is a uniform that Yamamoto wears for team things.

He is not wearing a uniform now.

Instead he wears a pair of jeans, old ones that are worn down to threads in places and that fit snugly across his thighs and seat and sit low on his hips. He started off with a t-shirt as well, but stripped that off in face of the heat.

Something about that bothers Kyouya, though he doesn't know why. He watches Yamamoto lean over to pull another ball from the bucket—the level is dropping and Yamamoto has to lean farther down each time. The jeans he wears are disreputable, worn to threads in places, more so than Kyouya thinks he can countenance. They pull tight across Yamamoto's ass and thighs, straining indecently as he draws his knee up, the worn places always just on the verge of giving way. The muscles move and flex across Yamamoto's back, the action of them plan to see under Yamamoto's skin, which is tanned brown and shines with sweat in the sunlight. He curls around the ball and lets it fly, the line of his body moving precisely and fluidly. The ball thumps against the target and Yamamoto stoops for the next one. When he leans down, the ring that dangles from the chain around his neck swings free, glittering in the sun.

There is something about Yamamoto's behavior that disquiets Kyouya, though he is not certain what that is (which is, in itself, disquieting, and he does not take such things kindly). It makes no sense for Yamamoto to come to this place, to invade the silence and solitude of the school campus on a Sunday when, by rights, it should be Kyouya's alone. It makes still less sense that he should do so three Sundays running, all without fanfare, when his proper place is elsewhere.

The bucket is nearly empty when Kyouya steps away from the shade of the equipment shed from which he has been observing Yamamoto. When he does, the sunlight closes on him like a fist. It has been too long since it last rained; the heat has baked the ground dry and each step Kyouya takes stirs up dust that eddies and swirls around his feet, drifting across the tops of his shoes and dulling their polish.

Yamamoto takes no notice of him, throwing another ball as Kyouya approaches him, and another. He stoops to retrieve another ball, the last in the bucket, and lets it fly. Kyouya is close enough now that he hears the little grunt of exertion that escapes Yamamoto's throat as the ball leaves his fingers. He follows through and then draws himself straight again, no sign of the usual sloppy slouch that rounds his shoulders and curves his spine apparent now. (Kyouya dislikes that slouch; it is careless and unbefitting a Namimori student, who should carry himself with some measure of dignity.) Then he turns and looks at Kyouya as though he's known that Kyouya has been present all along and is only now choosing to acknowledge him. He doesn't say anything; Kyouya spends a split second disconcerted and not sure why.

Then he sees.

It's that Yamamoto isn't smiling. He gazes at Kyouya, the sunlight lying across his shoulders, a light, watchful expression in his eyes, and there is no trace of the smile he customarily wears. (Kyouya has puzzled over that smile, which rarely leaves Yamamoto, as though he is constantly amused by the world around him.) In its absence, Yamamoto looks different, more like the person Kyouya has glimpsed from time to time in fights, the one who wields his blades like the fangs they are.

Irritation curls through Kyouya in response, though he doesn't quite know its source. However, this is his territory and domain and he doesn't need to have a reason to be displeased. Besides, Yamamoto has provided any number of excuses by his presence here this afternoon.

Kyouya stares at him a moment longer and says, enunciating each syllable precisely, "Students must wear their uniforms on school grounds."

Yamamoto blinks once and cocks his head. His hair stands up in damp spikes over the quirk of his eyebrows and the ring that rests just below the hollow of his throat catches the light when he shrugs. "School isn't in session."

Kyouya's fingers itch for the grips of his tonfa. "Those are the rules." It is an instinctive response to the sense of challenge in the way Yamamoto meets his eyes, giving no indication that he cares to back down. "Students must respect the school's rules."

One of the corners of Yamamoto's mouth turns up, but it's not a smile, or not one of the smiles that normally make their home on his face. "It's too hot for that," he says, his eyes moving like he's taking in the white shirt, wilted and limp from the heat, and black slacks, their creases much less crisp than they were this morning, that Kyouya wears. It's a dismissive glance, suggestive—it makes Kyouya feel as though he's been found wanting.

Kyouya lunges for Yamamoto, through with talking. Better to curl his fingers around the grips of his tonfa and administer justice to Yamamoto for being where he has not been invited and is not wanted. Yamamoto steps back quickly when Kyouya spins the tonfa in his hands and slashes it through the thick summer air. The blow misses its intended target and Yamamoto narrows his eyes.

He does not go for a weapon of his own, not for the sword resting on the grass a meter away, next to the crumpled heap of an abandoned t-shirt, or for the ring hanging at his throat and the box that must be tucked in his pocket, but that only annoys Kyouya further. If Yamamoto thinks that Kyouya won't bite him when he isn't armed, then Yamamoto surely is as stupid as Gokudera so often proclaims. He growls and reverses the direction of his swing, fully intending to slam his tonfa into Yamamoto's stomach, where it will drive the breath out of him.

Yamamoto hums something between his teeth and takes another step out of the way of the blow. "This doesn't seem fair," he notes as he ducks beneath the other, the one that should have cracked against his jaw and loosened a few of his teeth. Kyouya growls again in automatic disdain ("fair" is a concept for sheep) and lashes out for him again. It has been a hot week, too hot for Namimori's inhabitants to stir much beyond what is necessary, and Kyouya has had little cause to exercise himself. This is the first prospect of a decent fight he has had in days and he seizes on it, even as Yamamoto evades yet another blow, turning aside from the attack and stepping inside Kyouya's reach.

When he closes his fingers on Kyouya's wrist, the shock of it is so great that Kyouya doesn't quite know what to make of it. No one touches him, it is unthinkable, and yet Yamamoto does it, folding the long fingers of his hand around Kyouya's wrist and gripping it firmly enough that Kyouya knows that he will have some trouble breaking his hold.

"This would be more fair." Yamamoto's tone is light, almost conversational, though there is still no trace of a smile on his lips and his eyes are sharp, calculating. He twists the tonfa out of Kyouya's fingers and sends it bouncing across the turf to land several meters away, even as Kyouya, outraged, drives the butt end of its mate into his stomach.

Yamamoto grunts and releases him, staggering back as Kyouya hisses his anger. The taste of rage is sharp on his tongue, rage that Yamamoto would dare, and he is still armed, which gives the lie to Yamamoto's claim of fairness.

He follows Yamamoto, spinning the tonfa that remains to him and slamming it against Yamamoto's side. The sound Yamamoto makes barely counts as such—Kyouya has already knocked most of the breath out of him—and Kyouya sees the fierce brightness in Yamamoto's eyes just before Yamamoto's fist connects with his jaw. Pain blossoms there; the blow is solid, unexpectedly so when Yamamoto isn't the member of Sawada's pack who fights with his hands. It's a blow that means business; whatever it is that Yamamoto thinks he's doing, he's not attempting to be conciliatory or to escape being bitten.

Kyouya bares his teeth at Yamamoto and ducks aside from the next punch, the one that comes up from inside his guard and is meant for his midriff, and slashes at Yamamoto's jaw instead. He catches a glimpse of Yamamoto's teeth in return, the sort of smile that Yamamoto only wears when he's fighting, before Yamamoto spins aside from Kyouya's tonfa, letting it glance off his shoulder and using the motion to conceal the fist that rattles across Kyouya's ribs.

After that, Kyouya is too busy to track the blows they exchange and dodge. He is accustomed to fighting with two tonfa; the absence of the one leaves him feeling fractionally unbalanced. Yamamoto normally fights with blades, not barehanded, and so is not in his top form either. Still, it's an adequate fight. Kyouya tastes blood in his mouth after one of Yamamoto's punches connects; when they overbalance and go crashing to the ground, Yamamoto already has bruises beginning to pattern his torso, purpling fast and looking ugly.

The fine dust rises up around them, hazing the air as they grapple with each other. It streaks Yamamoto's skin and turns to mud as it mixes with his sweat and makes Kyouya cough as he wrestles with Yamamoto. Both of them are striving to subdue the other and neither can quite manage to gain the upper hand. Kyouya is on top of Yamamoto, refusing to let him use his greater height and bulk to turn them, no matter how Yamamoto bucks and twists under him. But Yamamoto has both his hands on Kyouya's wrists; the muscles stand out in his upper arms with how determined his grip is, and Kyouya can't get the purchase to strike him and finish the fight. They strain against each other, deadlocked and panting, silent except for the sound of their breathing. The sun overhead scorches Kyouya's back through his shirt (which is plastered to his skin now with sweat) before Yamamoto stops trying to writhe out from beneath him.

Something like disappointment twists through the uncompromising joy of the fight—Kyouya isn't ready to stop yet, far from it—before Yamamoto raises his head. Kyouya's first thought is one of grudging approval (he would not have expected Yamamoto to be the sort of fighter who'd remember to use his teeth), but it gets swept away in confusion when Yamamoto seals his mouth against Kyouya's.

Kyouya goes still, baffled by this sudden swerve in Yamamoto's agenda just long enough for Yamamoto to slide his tongue between Kyouya's lips. The feel of it is gritty from the dust in the air and flavored with salt and iron, strange and soft where Kyouya has braced himself for the bite of teeth. Yamamoto shifts the angle of his head and flicks his tongue through Kyouya's mouth, flirting it against Kyouya's and over his palate, forestalling Kyouya's first instinct (attack) and his second (retreat) by appealing to his curiosity with the way it feels. Kyouya is not stupid and has known for some time that people derive pleasure from kissing, enough pleasure that he does a regular business in driving the ones willing to risk his wrath from the hidden corners of school grounds. Until now, however, he hasn't quite been certain what the appeal might be.

Yamamoto slides his tongue against Kyouya's again, the stroke of it slow and strange and wet. Then he drops his head back and looks at Kyouya, still and watchful, asking a silent question with the way he crooks his eyebrows. (He hasn't let go of Kyouya's wrists, either; whatever else Yamamoto might be, he's a reasonably astute tactician.)

He waits and Kyouya experiences another wash of reluctant approval, this time that Yamamoto is deft enough to know how to make an offer and then wait for the response. On the other hand, he dislikes interruptions quite a bit, and this is unquestionably an interruption to their fight.

Or perhaps it isn't.

Kyouya is sprawled on top of Yamamoto. Now that he doesn't have to deal with Yamamoto's trying to dislodge him, Kyouya can feel that there is something pressing against his hip, something hard that is completely the wrong shape and place to be Yamamoto's box weapon.

This realization makes Kyouya blink, disconcerted. (He's been convinced for a long time that the real difference between himself and the herds of herbivores that perennially plague him is the visceral pleasure he takes from the fight.) Yamamoto's expression stays steady, waiting, until Kyouya bears down against him, applying experimental friction and pressure to that hardness beneath his hip. Then Yamamoto's entire expression changes: his mouth falls open and his eyes go unfocused as he groans, the sound unexpectedly deep. There is something in that reaction that Kyouya likes, so he does it again, shifting himself to slide his thigh between Yamamoto's and grinding it against him.

Yamamoto gasps and drops his head back as he lifts his hips up, rocking them against Kyouya's thigh and rubbing against him, unselfconscious as a cat. It bares his throat, shows the soft skin under his chin damp with sweat and the pulse beating at the base of his throat, fluttering just beneath the weight of the Rain ring. A part of Kyouya disapproves of that—it seems inappropriate that Yamamoto should show submission so easily—but then, Yamamoto's grip on his wrists is still solid and there is something appealing in this, too.

Kyouya bears down on him, grinding his thigh against Yamamoto and listening to the sound that friction drags out of him, a sound that is hoarse and hungry. Yamamoto moves under him again; he plants his feet against the ground and rolls his hips up, matching the downward pressure of Kyouya's thigh against his cock, falling into a quick, urgent rhythm with him. Yamamoto's eyes are half-closed, but Kyouya can see the gleam of iris and pupil from beneath his lids; Yamamoto is still watching him.

But not for long. Kyouya shifts his weight again, adjusting to the staccato movement of Yamamoto's hips under his. Yamamoto's breathing goes deep and harsh before he groans, straining against Kyouya with his eyes pressed shut and his mouth open for the sounds he makes. Then he relaxes all at once, sprawling against the ground with beads of fresh sweat making new tracks through the dust and mud on his skin.

Kyouya becomes aware of two things in that moment: the first is that there is a hungry curl of want coiling itself in the pit of his stomach, the kind of restless sense of incompletion that he is used to feeling after a fight and to seeing to with his own hand when the occasion calls for it. The second is that Yamamoto's hands have loosened.

Yamamoto's breathing has only just begun to slow when Kyouya twists his hands free; he makes a startled, dazed sound and opens his eyes as Kyouya levers himself up. He's lost that alert, watchful expression from before, at least for the moment—it's been blunted by his pleasure, though that fades fast as Yamamoto realizes that Kyouya is sitting over him and still has a tonfa in his hand. He doesn't look afraid (a part of Kyouya notes that with satisfaction; Yamamoto is a carnivore after all) but he does look cautious, suitably so. After a moment, he wets his lips. "Well?"

His hands rest against the ground, loose and open and ready, Kyouya thinks, to defend himself if it is warranted. But he's waiting to see what Kyouya decides, just like before.

Kyouya is beginning to think that Yamamoto might actually have a subtle streak.

He puts the tonfa down; it raises a little puff of dust and Yamamoto's eyes widen by the barest fraction. Then they go wider, because Kyouya is still hard and means to do something about that, which means undoing his fly and reaching inside for his cock. Yamamoto stares as he does, watching avidly as Kyouya folds his fingers around himself and strokes, one long pull up and down, which sends pleasure buzzing along his nerves in response. Another stroke and Kyouya can see that Yamamoto's eyes are fixed on his cock as his hands curl in on themselves. A third and Yamamoto sucks in a breath that makes his chest heave and says, "You want some help with that?"

Kyouya considers the question as he runs his fingers up and down, the pace leisurely because he prefers the slow build of pleasure to immediate gratification. Yamamoto is intent on him in a way that Kyouya finds both peculiar (because Yamamoto has much the same expression now as he had when they were fighting, and before, when he was emptying that bucket of baseballs) and gratifying. Does he want that?

"No," he decides. He doesn't miss the way Yamamoto's eyes spark; it makes him smile, because Yamamoto has had far too many things his own way this afternoon.

Yamamoto bites his lip, sinking his teeth into his lower lip until it turns white under the pressure, but abides by Kyouya's response. It puts an edge to the pleasure that Kyouya is finding, as little sense as that makes, and he takes his time, making each sliding pull of his fist last as long as it can, letting the pleasure build until he can't help the way his hips twitch and he is hovering on the edge of release. Yamamoto drinks it all in, flexing his hands open and closed and sweeping his eyes over Kyouya (to his face, down again, back up, like he wants to see everything at once) and breathes faster the closer Kyouya can feel himself getting. He stays silent, though, respecting Kyouya's preference, which Kyouya approves of.

He takes his hand away from his cock, though it is difficult to do when all he needs is a little more, and flicks his fingers at Yamamoto. "Now," he commands.

Yamamoto exhales, the sound shaky, and stretches a hand down to him. He slides his fingers around Kyouya, running his thumb up the underside of his cock and over the head. It's nothing Kyouya hasn't done himself a hundred times over, but the difference between doing and havingdone are suddenly, vividly apparent. The friction of Yamamoto's thumb dragging over him, calloused differently from his own hand, forces a gasp out of Kyouya as sensations jolts through him, a thousand times more intense for the brief interruption. Kyouya thrusts against Yamamoto's fist, panting as Yamamoto mimics the slow pace he'd set for himself. Then Yamamoto slides his thumb over Kyouya's head again, back and forth, and release smashes through Kyouya, driving the breath from him and greying out his vision.

Yamamoto is still watching him when Kyouya begins to catch his breath and reorder his thinking in the aftermath; it takes him a moment to realize that he's staring back, tracing his eyes over the sweat and the dust and the bruises that streak Yamamoto's chest and the wet spot that darkens the front of his jeans. There's a mess on Yamamoto's fingers and on his stomach, too, from how hard Kyouya's just come, and the way he keeps his eyes on Kyouya is careful. Watchful. He looks like he's waiting for Kyouya again, to do something, maybe, though Kyouya scarcely knows what.

He tenses when Kyouya reaches for the tonfa he set down, but he doesn't say anything. That is acceptable, Kyouya decides, more so than other possibilities, so he slides his tonfa into its customary resting place and does up his fly.

Despite the pleasure of having found a good fight, and the diversion after, he feels jumpy, strange in his skin, which is not a feeling he enjoys. He stands and stalks over to retrieve his other tonfa from where Yamamoto threw it; that he has to do this reminds him of his earlier anger. Part of him is very tempted to take this strange, unsettled feeling and vent it on Yamamoto, the proximate cause.

He doesn't, not least because he's uneasily aware that it might not end the way it ought, with Yamamoto properly chastised and his own equanimity restored. It's an uncomfortable thought, one he promptly ignores.

Most unsettling of all is what happens when he turns back to Yamamoto, feeling that he ought to at least make sure Yamamoto knows that further unusual behavior will not be tolerated. Yamamoto has regained his own feet and is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He is a mess, filthy from head to toe, and the weight of his hands has dragged the waistband of his jeans down even farther down his hips, showing the crests of his hipbones and the edge of a line of dark hair. The weight of his hands also stretches the denim taut; it looks like he might be getting hard again, which puts a hot feeling at the pit of Kyouya's own stomach.

(He knows that most people find other individuals attractive; until now, however, like kissing, he hasn't seen what the point of it might be.)

When Yamamoto tips his head to the side, looking like he's on the verge of saying something, Kyouya breaks his stare away and decides that he is done after all. He leaves without saying another word, perturbed by the feeling that Yamamoto watches him until he turns the corner of the equipment shed, and seeks the privacy of his office to restore himself to order and assimilate this strange encounter.

And if part of that involves standing at his window and observing as Yamamoto, his figure made small by the distance, gathers up the scattered baseballs, it is no one's business but his own.

end

Comments are lovely!