Vertigo.

Summary: In a day you breathe 2340 times, move 3 to 4 kilometers o the average, drink 1.3 kilograms of water but it only takes Gokudera Hayato six seconds to drop down unceremoniously on the marbled floor, a bullet in his chest dying his vintage Armani a sickeningly bloody red.

Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera. 8059

Rating: M

A/N: It turned into this angsty porno fic for some reason. But I've always wanted to write in Yamamoto's POV so hence this fic. Plus when you visit a human body exhibit it kind of inspires you. Even in a morbid, disgusting way.

In a day you breathe 2340 times, move 3 to 4 kilometers on the average, breathe 120 m2 of air, drink 1.3 kilograms of water, excrete 3.5 kilograms of body waste, perspire0.7 liter of sweat, speak 4800 words, and move your major muscles 750 times.

But it only takes Gokudera Hayato six seconds- six excruciatingly painful seconds—to drop down unceremoniously on the marbled floor, a bullet in his chest dying his vintage Armani a sickeningly bloody red.

"What?" the Italian says incredulously as he tries to keep his face composed and failing miserably. The white cancer stick poised between his index and middle finger nearly up.

You scratch the back of your head with your right hand and repeat yourself, willing your voice to sound more confident, "Do you want to stay over?"

He sizes you up while flicking the burnt tip of his cigarette off the ledge, bringing it to his lips and inhales greedily. It takes a few more moments before he leans his head back and expels the smoke through his mouth with an O, which you're probably sure just turned you on at that exact moment.

And you're pretty sure he knows that bit as well.

He regards you with one of serious gazes and you look at him straight, unflinching, unmoving.

"Women don't like questions" he says quietly in that raspy voice of his that he got from smoking way too many cigarettes.

You close the distance between the two of you, effectively trapping him with your body with his back against the ledge. The noon sun prickles your skin with heat and sheens of sweat coat your bodies. You stay locked in this position for a few moments, a minute, maybe even an hour, just gazing, looking, peering.

You find yourself leaning towards him to whisper your most loving sentiments at the moment, "Well, I'm glad that you're not a woman then"

You feel him grasp your shirt collar and gaze at you heatedly, his green eyes capturing your attention between half-lidded, long eyelashes. He takes a final swig of his cigarette before he puts it out at the railing and lets it fall down to the ground below.

He exhales the smoke on your face and speaks in that straightforward tone laced with small, barely noticeable, traces of his Italian accent that you can't seem to get enough of.

"I'm staying the night."

Your voice breaks as you scream his name hoarsely, running to his side as quickly as you possibly can.

The dull thud of your footsteps echoes listlessly in your ears and the intakes of air your fellow guardians, their voices melding into one name—Hayato.

Tsuna's face is the most shocked of all of you. His trembling hands pressing the white handkerchief against his chest wound coating it a sickening red.

You feel like an eternity has passed before you reach his side. Too long, it's too long.

The first time you discovered you were in love with Gokudera Hayato was in your first year of high school.

There was just something different about him that day when he obliged Kyoko a song in Italian due to the Tsuna's insistence that you found ravishing.

Because in that single moment, you saw more than what he wanted everyone to show. A side of him that was vulnerable.

And you felt your stomach knot, your voice caught in your throat, heart beating wildly in your chest that you would never be able to look at that gorgeous man the same again without wanting to kiss his long, silver eyelashes, caress his alabaster skin and speak with him without being intoxicated by his raspy low baritone.

And you're even more surprised that you don't mind the fact that you're falling in love with another man disturbing you in the slightest.

You say his first name over and over, making sure he knows you're there.

If he could talk he'd probably tell you that you're abusing the right to use his first name but at this point you couldn't fucking care less anymore.

You want him to know you're there, that you're by his side.

And you swear for a moment his glassy green eyes fixate on you before he coughs out a gurgle of blood.

The first time you worked up enough courage to kiss him was in the summer of your seventeenth year.

It's Ryohei-sempai's eighteenth birthday and your father decided to let everyone have a taste of booze. Unfortunately however, he has to leave on an errand and you guys end up drinking more than your fair share, soon enough everyone else is asleep, legs splayed haphazardly around Takesushi.

You chuckle lightly to yourself as you pour another cup of sake for yourself and a certain silver-haired Italian who could hold his liquor quite well.

You're both in your room as you decide that it would be best not to disturb the others while they're sleeping soundly.

The bottles of brandy, sake and cheap beer are littered on the floor when you suddenly have the urge to place your lips on his. The kiss is chaste but you make sure its gentle, and you're pretty damn sure you're definitely not drunk enough to pass it off as an impulsive behavior brought about by alcohol.

Don't want to.

When Gokudera doesn't respond you pull away slowly and chug down the glass of sake you've just poured for yourself earlier, chuckling quietly to ease the tension between you.

It comes as a surprise then when he grabs the collar of your shirt and pulls you closer to him, his lips pressing against yours, kissing you fervently. For a moment you're surprised but you have half a mind to return the kiss with as much vigor as you can muster, a small flicker of hope reignites itself in your chest.

You end up tangled in each other, the room feeling hotter than it was a few minutes ago, and you feel Gokudera—Hayato—try to unbutton your shirt clumsily. You try to deepen the kiss until he breaks it off quite suddenly, a sinking feeling in your chest, when he pushes you to a sitting position.

"Non, Non Takeshi…like this.." he instructs as he tilts your head before he gives you an open mouthed kiss, slow, passionate, his tongue dancing around your mouth with expertise and you try to imitate what he just did, your mind only just registering the fact that Gokudera—Hayato—was a damn good kisser and you feel your heart constrict at the thought that he might have kissed men and women other that you. You hear him moan in assent at your performance and you can't help but feel happy that you're doing it right.

And you swear to yourself to be mindblowingly good at whatever this is your doing right now—making out—as Hayato would tell you later on, so you can keep him in your arms longer, hear him moan your name over and over so he'll relent to do this more often for you.

You glance at Tsuna and you've never seen him so mad his entire life.

His entire body shakes in silent fury as you see him grab his gun from his pocket and click the safety off the gun himself.

This was the wrong time for Reborn to have taken a vacation as you see his warm, chocolate brown eyes turn cold as he shoots point black at the assassin that had the guts to try and kill him.

The man falls unceremoniously on the floor with a dull thud, a bullet lodged between his eyes.

But its not enough for you, someone has to pay for doing this to him. To your Hayato, that you'd tear him piece by piece until there was nothing left of him for his family to collect anymore.

That you'd do it yourself, because Hayato doesn't deserve this.

But he gets hurt anyway.

Your first fight as a couple—which Hayato would swear you weren't—he's really shy, was about how he thinks you never listen to him.

You remember how his cheeks flushed as he starts to articulate his opinions on your character, hearing baseball freak, weirdo and you never truly understand how upset he is until you hear him say your name. Not your last name but your first, Takeshi.

He's never said your first name aloud before and you feel a stab in your heart that it was used this way. He tries to cover the fact that he's tearing up and you feel the urge to hold his hand, just hold him close to you, because this is all that matters. That he knows you love him. Love.

So you start to mouth off names and dates, of topics and subtopics, of the exact minute and the exact expression Hayato had the past five days, you remember everything about him with such clarity, that it's comparable to your concentration and observation skills in baseball. Maybe even more.

And you think that it's not that you don't listen, it's because you're just too damn happy. Too happy that you know for a fact, Hayato would never let another man touch him, hold him the way you do and it just makes it impossible not to smile like an idiot, as he says you are.

Maybe you really are an idiot. But at least you're his idiot.

And when he puts a finger on your lips and kisses you chastely, you know he was just as insecure as you were.

"It's enough, I'm sorry I doubted you, you just don't show it very well, I love you too" but you never hear this out loud, but it's all about the subtext when it comes to him. He's never been able to truly be honest with someone unless it's Tsuna. And sometimes you feel jealous of that brunette that he can just call Hayato about something and see his face come to life. That he could ask him what was wrong and he'd tell him instantly.

You wonder about the time when you won't need to prod and pester the Italian about how his day went for hours before he relents to give you a few tidbits of his day. But you're a pretty patient guy.

So you hold him close to you. Close enough that you can smell the shampoo of his hair and tell what time he took a bath, even the brand he uses. Because you remember every detail about the things you love.

Him especially.

You're vaguely aware of whatever is happening. You see Ryohei applying pressure to stop the bleeding and hear Chrome's frantic voice as she speaks in rapid Italian for Hibari to come pick up Hayato. Your Hayato.

But this doesn't faze you too much because you can't concentrate. Your mind keeps switching on and off.

It took six seconds for Gokudera to see a gun aimed at Tsuna, to push him away haphazardly, and for that bullet to lodge itself in his chest.

Six seconds to see your world crash before your eyes.

For reality to strip it away from you, to leave you raw, with absolutely nothing to cling on to, in despair.

Years later you hear the all too familiar cadence of muted footsteps from behind the door of your flat. A soft, tune is playing from the grand piano, Chopin. Your hands close over the door knob and you trudge silently into the room, he hasn't noticed you yet and you realize he's humming.

He really is happy. Ecstatic even. You hear an arpeggio, and you can imagine his fingers dancing over the keys with all his subdued grace he hides behind his rough exterior.

You reckon that maybe he's finished all his paperwork and taken down a rival mafia with him today. Or maybe, Tsuna's actually voiced out his happiness and you feel a short stab prickling your chest at the thought of you Hayato so happy because of another man's approval.

So you sneak up behind him and snake your arms across his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck, crooning your arrival to him in the most lascivious of ways. He leans to your touch a bit as he finishes off the last notes of the piece, ending it with a flourish and show of hands and you wonder why he had decided to stain those lovely fingers of his red instead of pursuing another career in the arts. Then again if he had, maybe you would never have met him and that still doesn't bode well with you either. Ad you don't mind the fact that you're both so bloody and so twisted since you have each other.

"Buon Natale" he says to you in Italian and you nip his earlobe affectionately in response. He really is in a good mood to actually allow you to listen to his native tongue without that much begging and prodding.

"Konbanwa" you say in yours as you reach for his left hand and kiss his fingers on by one. The storm ring ever present in the middle of both your hands, and a triumphant smirk reaches your face as you see he's wearing that ring you gave him two years ago. You give the back of his hand a small peck and he hums approvingly at your gesture. "I'm not your grandmother"

And you give his neck a good suck and nibble as you leave him a mark that he's yours. "I'm not your whore"

It is at this moment you twist his head towards you, cupping his face in your hands, as you kiss his forehead. "I'm not your mother"

His cheek. "I'm not your sister"

His nose. "I'm not your child"

You brush a strand of silver away from his eyes and gaze at him steadily. "What are you to me then, querida?" you say before you kiss him passionately on the lips. He returns your kiss slowly, tilting his head so as to wrap his arms around your shoulders and pull your hair as you push him towards the piano keys, the violent cascade of notes neither perturbs your momentum nor ceases it as your tongues battle and lap each other searchingly. He breaks it off for a gasp of air and you give his lips several pecks as he adjusts his position on the chair, your right knee next to his thigh.

"I'm your goddamn lover you fucking idiot and I'm pretty damn sure that was not Italian" he says in between your kisses and you feel his cheeks flush despite his profanities and you chuckle a bit at your expense.

You capture his lips once more and he returns your kiss more fervently than before. Your tongues are on fire and you feel the heat pooling in your stomach as you unbutton his jacket and pull him up from the chair. You fumble your way to the bedroom leaving a pile of clothes in your wake. By the time you kick the bedroom door shut you're both raggedly disheveled and sporting equally painful hard ons. He's missing his red Armani polo and you reckon your vest is somewhere in the living room.

He pulls you toward the bed with your tie and you push him haphazardly on the soft mattress. He tries to unbutton your shirt hastily while you leave him trails of kisses on his neck, chest to his navel. You both groan as you kiss him on the lips, your throbbing members grazing past each other. You know by the way his hands pull down your shirt hard and the way his back arches when you suck on a hard nipple that he wants you inside him already. A breathy "Takeshi, please" in your ear and you lose the remaining reason you have.

You unbuckle your belt hastily as does he, kicking his pants firmly down to the floor, his erect member moist from precum. You grab the lube from the bedside table as you lather it onto your fingers, inserting one, two then three into the puckered hole, scissoring him until he's ready to take you in.

You kiss him fervently as you thrust inside him, his back arching, nails digging into your back leaving red trails in its wake but you could care less. You start to thrust inside him, his hands fisting a handful of the covers as he moans your name over and over. He gives you something short of a gasp as you find his sweet spot and you are rewarded with guttural moan, enticing you to continue your ministrations. He wraps his arms around your neck and bites down on your shoulder hard, drawing blood as you thrust at that spot again and again.

He breathes heavily as you send him over the edge with one final thrust, as you come together, moaning each other's names out loud, coming inside of him as you ride it out and drawing out your deflated member with a schwick.

You lie beside him panting heavily, as he tries to hide his body under the bedsheets. You snuggle up against him and wrap your arms around his waist as he reaches for a cigarette from the bedside table, filling the room with the stench of nicotine and heady sex.

"You are insatiable" he tells you as scathingly as he can muster as he takes another drag while you leave trails of kisses on his stomach. You give him another slow kiss and he blushes furiously as he takes another drag when you bury your head on the crook of his neck. "I spoil the ones I love Hayato, most especially you"

And you swear you hear him mumble something akin to "Mio Amore" as he kisses you chastely on the lips.

heaven knows you had more than one romp last night.

Hibari comes by with his black Ferrari, his vacation cut short, as you lift Gokudera into the vehicle quickly but carefully.

He's losing too much blood.

Tsuna stays behind to hunt down the remaining sons of bitches with Hibari who gives his car keys to Ryohei.

And as Ryohei drives like a maniac and Chrome tries to use her illusions to somehow keep him alive, you feel your hands shaking uncontrollably and your expression unreadable.

Because you don't understand why all of this is happening.

Why its happening to you. To him. To Tsuna. To Chrome. To Ryohei. To Bianchi. To Lambo.

When you've finally—damn.

Damn it.

It's Christmas Eve of your eighteenth year that you realize life is too fragile, too fleeting.

The broken glass of the dilapidated building does nothing to stifle the cold air rushing against your skin, numbing you to the pain.

Numbing away your sin.

The room is dirty, the beige carpet that was in its prime beautiful is now in disrepair, graying like a whore too old for work. The couch is sunken and the floorboards creek. The curtain is torn with what appears to be bullet holes and the wallpaper hangs from the walls. It's dusty and disorganized but that's not what's keeping your mind preoccupied.

Gokudera is panting, his clothes and body are dyed red. You don't even know if the blood is his or the man who's sprawled on the pavement with his glassy, lifeless eyes.

He lowers the beretta he's holding and he looks at you with such an intensity that you feel the air asphyxiate you.

There's blood on his face besides the bruises and the swollen lip from earlier. And you feel the sting from the cut on your chin and your shaking hands holding Shigure Kintoki is making you anxious.

You feel like you're about to vomit.

"I didn't mean to do that to him…" you say, unable to keep your voice from shaking.

He was going to kill me. He was going to kill you too.

And you remember the sensation of cutting his limbs off with a single strike from your blade, the splattering of blood and his knife grazing your chin as he swings wildly at you. How you felt the sudden rush of adrenalin coursing through your veins and the euphoria that came with it.

And you hated yourself for feeling that way, that you may have liked killing him.

You gaze at him with your steely eyes, as he tries to stand up despite the fact you just dismembered his arms, blood pouring out and forming pools. His agonized screams falling deaf on your ears.

But he still wouldn't die. He was bleeding profusely but still he held on.

And you suddenly felt afraid. What have I done?

And then you see Gokudera stand in front of you, gun in his hand, shooting him between the eyes. A loud bang and the man's muffled pleas of mercy are unbidden.

He's dead.

"I know you didn't" you hear him say quietly as he embraces you. He strokes your hair lovingly, and you feel the cold metal of the beretta against your back.

"I think I killed him Hayato…"

"No you didn't, I did. It's not your fault."

"I still killed him, in my head, over and over—" but you couldn't finish your sentence as a pair of lips capture yours and you feel yourself kissing him back. You know why he's doing this. Why he's kissing you right now and why you're suddenly pulling his shirt over his head.

You know you just want to forget, and you know its makes you look weak, but he understands.

And you figure that he's done this before, kill people. Since he ran away. Even before you met him.

He's killed so many times now and you finally understand how he earned his nickname. Finally comprehend the gravity of his words and actions when he tried to push you away.

Away from this world.

To keep you pure and oblivious.

But you'd rather be with him than stay in that peaceful world. But you don't want to think about that now as you run your hands through his body, blood tainting his as you search each other desperately. Needily.

Hungrily.

Because you know you both need this. You need this.

And he's too kind to refute your advances, too kind to just shove you to the ground, too kind not to comfort you and make you feel that it's going to be okay when its not. Too kind.

You know you're pulling him down with you and it makes you sick that you're doing so, but you don't want to be alone right now or ever and he knows this too. So he kisses you, nibbles your lip and moans your name when he comes.

The mangled body the only witness to your crime, the stench of blood, gunpowder and sex giving off an oppressive air in the dingy old room you're in, blood seeping into the carpet.

You are selfish and greedy that you're willing to drag him to your level.

But you love him too much to let go, and you know that if you did it might just drive you insane.

The sunlight cascades through the room via an open window.

The scent of the sea wafts through the white, billowing curtains. You think you're somewhere in Venice. And it truly is beautiful here.

You want to tell him how beautiful it is and how much you want to bask in the anonymity of this place and meander through tight corridors and throngs of people speaking such an elegant language and speak yours and be sincere—but you can't.

Not anymore.

Not yet.

The steady beeps of the machine next to his bedside are the only indications that he's still alive and it's all that's holding you from falling apart.

It's been some time after your last visit to Italy, say two months, and he's waiting for you patiently in his office.

You knock quietly, he's being drowned in paperwork and when you greet him he just gives you a grunt in response. Music is playing softly from the radio, and the curtains are closed. It's probably around four in the afternoon, and you're still feeling the vengeful vestiges of jet lag but you power through. Smile.

You scoot over to the long mahogany table and see an ashtray full of cigarette butts and tut. You sit on his desk while loosening your tie, breathing in the air and basking in his presence.

"What the fuck was that sound for?" he asks irritably setting a fountain pen down. Tsuna's gift, judging from the engraving.

He probably hasn't had a coffee break yet.

"If you have a fucking problem with the room smelling like smoke and shit you can just leave, it ain't my fault that you're a health freak"

Plus Lunch.

"Maa, Maa, I've given up a long time ago to try dissuading you from smoking by force. Why have you had a change of heart now?"

"Tch, you wish asswipe"

You feel a warm feeling in your chest, spreading sporadically despite the verbal abuse.

You miss him so much. So you lean towards him and press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, cupping his face between your hands. And he wraps his arms around your neck and you deepen the kiss. He bites your lower lip and you hum contentedly, parting your lips at his prodding. He tastes like nicotine and wine, it has a sweet aftertaste so you infer its probably Chianti Classico 1967.

No lunch yet.

You smile into the kiss as you shove the paper away on his desk with your free hand, and he stands up from his chair, lips still connected, and straddles you on the desk as you lie down. You mentally note the fountain pen is still hanging precariously over the ledge. Damn.

Focus, Takeshi, he's right in front of you.

You search each other ravenously, the rumpling of your clothes, him pulling your hair and his paperwork strewn onto the floor speak volumes.

I missed you.

You could have worked quickly.

Why did you leave without saying good bye?

Can't you trust me?

I still love you.

Phone Sex isn't enough.

Have you been faithful?

You better have been.

I'm really distracted now.

It's your fault by the way.

And as you pull away to breathe you look at him in the eyes. His flushed face and rumpled clothing matching his rather delectably erotic face at the moment. And you feel a swell of pride at the fact that he's yours.

You run your hands along his face trying to memorize everything about him, that sharp bridge of his nose, the angled contours of his face, his pouty lips that always had a cigarette between them except when you're kissing, those green eyes that seem to change hues in the light. You recall him saying it's a phototoxic effect and you chuckle lightly as you run your fingers against his face, bringing your foreheads together.

"Some people are trying to work here" he says half-heartedly, gazing at you with his sea-green eyes.

"Buon Compleano, Hayato" you manage to say before he closes the distance between the two of you again.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest as you hear your name being uttered from the still body in front of you.

His eyes are fluttering, one, two, three, until it opens carefully, his long, thick eyelashes hiding the beauty of his eyes.

His face still has that sickly pallor and he's too thin, but he's awake. And you feel your breath catch as you see him whisper your name again and the blood rushes your ears as hurriedly sit on the chair next to the bed.

And you grasp his hand tightly, hoping that your fingers can warm his cold bandaged hand fast enough so he can feel you. And it takes a few minutes before you feel a small pressure against yours. And you smile for the first time in months.

"Hayato—" you begin, your voice cracking from disuse and he looks at you with that mysterious smile, that all-knowing, understanding, kind one you love.

"You stupid baseball freak, you probably slacked off the time I've been asleep haven't you?"

And you laugh a big hearty laugh as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, the steady beeps of the machine proving that he is still alive and that you're talking to him again. That he's still with you. That he hasn't moved on without you. And you're ecstatic. You're happy. And you resolve to tell Tsuna and the others about him waking up tomorrow because you just want him all to yourself right now.

You're greedy and you know it. You're selfish—but just this time—you say to yourself—let me be selfish for just this one time to you Tsuna. And you know he'll understand because he practically owns the Italian body and soul and you're just lucky that he still had his heart to spare.

And you remember.

Remember the word he told you all those years ago. The word that described everything you felt the moment the bullet lodged itself in his chest, that nauseating feeling that you get when you feel everything come crashing down before your eyes, swaying you and shaking you to your core, the lightness of being and utter lack of structure in the aftermath.

Vertigo.

Because in a day you breathe 2340 times, move 3 to 4 kilometers on the average, breathe 120 m2 of air, drink 1.3 kilograms of water, excrete 3.5 kilograms of body waste, perspire0.7 liter of sweat, speak 4800 words, and move your major muscles 750 times but it only takes Gokudera Hayato—Your Hayato—six seconds to make everything alright again with the mere fluttering of his eyelids and a whisper of your name.

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