Title: Dexterity
Pairings: Yamamoto/Gokudera
Summary: Gokudera never stops paying attention.
Notes: Adult for smut. Future fic. Vignettes, not plot, 1050 words.

Dexterity

Takeshi's fingers wrap around the hilt of Shigure Kintoki like it is the most natural thing in the world; sometimes Hayato thinks that perhaps Takeshi and his sword really were made for each other. Takeshi himself seems to be unaware of how perfectly he and his sword fit together. He flows through his kata, the sword he handles no more than an extension of his body and his will. It looks so natural that Hayato has to remind himself of the strips of callus on Takeshi's palms and the hours of daily practice that make this moment of heart-stopping grace possible.

Then Yamamoto looks around and catches him looking and smiles, so utterly oblivious that Hayato growls and turns away in disgust.

But the moment stays with him, the sweep of steel and cloth and flesh in harmony coming together to make something more than the sum of its parts.

Takeshi spreads files across his desk and picks through them, frowning over them as he does. He riffles through the papers scattered before him, sorted according to a logic known only to him. Hayato despairs of understanding it himself and is left to wait for Takeshi to put it all together again.

He doesn't hurry.

Hayato can't prove that Takeshi does this to him deliberately; he has seen Takeshi ransack a set of files to provide just the crucial bit of information the Tenth needs in five minutes flat, but that was an emergency and adrenaline does amazing things. Or so Takeshi insists. When he has the leisure, Takeshi is glacially methodical. He fans papers between his fingers and pages through them, leaving Hayato to cool his heels and watch him work, until Takeshi offers him the newly-assembled file with a showy little flourish that makes Hayato stomp out, exasperated.

It is apparently beyond Takeshi's abilities to sit still during a meeting. He fidgets constantly, jogging a knee up and down until the entire table shakes and Hayato snaps at him to be still. He twirls his pen between his fingers until he loses his concentration and drops it. The papers in front of him are full of crude doodles, stick figure representations of the Tenth and his Guardians and their enemies fleeing before them. Hayato lives in terror of the day that they will be in negotiations and another Family will realize that they are featured among those crude caricatures and declare war.

When Hayato confiscates Takeshi's pen and paper and coffee, desperate to keep him still, Takeshi fidgets with his clothes instead. He toys with the buttons on his cuffs and jacket and hooks a finger in the knot of his tie to loosen it, and Hayato surrenders.

Takeshi's hands are steady on his gun. The muzzle never wavers, not when he is on the shooting range to fill paper targets full of holes and not when it's pressed against Bruno Todaro's sweating temple. The gun is as steady as Takeshi's expression, which is calm and faintly sorry as he thumbs the safety off.

That's Hayato's clue, and he asks again. This time Todaro doesn't try playing the hero; he swallows hard and spills his guts. None of it's a surprise, but it's useful to have independent confirmation about what the fucking Barassi are up to this time. It's nothing good, but when is it ever?

Afterwards, Hayato keeps his eye on Takeshi, who holds his shoulders a little straighter as he holsters his gun. He passes his hand over his face, once, and is smiling when he turns to Hayato, all his thoughts about Todaro wiped away.

At the end of the day, the only way to tell that Takeshi is tired to look at the small things: the corners of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth, the way his shoulders settle lower and the hand he scrubs through his hair and rubs against the back of his neck, pressing against the muscles there. All these signs add up in the private mathematics that only Hayato knows; it's why he growls at Ryouhei when that indefatigable idiot suggests another round in the gym to wind down after all the things the day has brought them.

Takeshi doesn't say anything about it, but his mouth eases a bit and his smile turns warmer. The line of his shoulders relaxes, too, and his steps are lighter when he turns away from the rest of them, striding towards home and the privacy it offers.

Hayato follows after him.

Takeshi says that he can't get enough of touching him. Hayato believes it; Takeshi's hands stay on his skin constantly in bed, sliding down his ribs and over his thighs like Takeshi is trying to memorize every part of him. Hayato likes having Takeshi's hands on him, the rough drag of his calluses paired with the careful way Takeshi touches him. It's the same deft touch Takeshi uses for everything he does, and it makes Hayato groan to have that dexterity turned to these ends instead. He pants when those long fingers push up into him, opening him up, and digs his fingers into Takeshi's shoulders, arching into the way Takeshi's cock slides into him and gasping for more as Takeshi fucks him. But it's not until Takeshi wraps that sure grip around Hayato's cock that he comes apart and bucks into Takeshi's hand as pleasure turns him inside out.

Hayato doesn't understand the fascination Takeshi has with his hair, but Takeshi can't keep his hands out of it. He combs his fingers through it, unraveling the tangles that an energetic round of fucking causes with what Hayato has told him is obsessive care. Takeshi just laughs and keeps on doing it. As with so many things related to Takeshi, Hayato has given up on protesting it and just lets him get on with it now.

Truth is, he's gotten to the point where he likes sprawling against Takeshi's chest and letting Takeshi play with his hair while they talk about the day, exchanging stupid little inanities about this and that. It's soothing, like the rhythm of Takeshi's breathing, and Hayato drifts while Takeshi keeps rambling away, pouring out all the things he doesn't think Hayato hears as he falls asleep.

But Hayato listens to every one, and doesn't forget.

end

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