Theory of Addiction

Yamamoto hates the smell of cigarette smoke.

He hates how it lingers constantly; tainting and staining anything it wafted past. He hates how it smells so fervently of fire and ash and the wish of a quick death. He hates how that fiery scent signals a fast approach to the grave.

He hates it, rather simply. He just hates it.

Many good sportsmen have been ruined by the poison. Hell, many good people period have fallen victim to the horrifying addiction. It does naught but rot once healthy lungs and slowly – very slowly – quicken the pace to death.

Some might think he was over reacting, but this was merely how Yamamoto was.

Smoking and Yamamoto Takashi were not things that mixed very well.

When he first met Gokudera, he'd been startled by the ever present cigarette dangling between a pair of enticing slender lips. Lips that were, he'd noticed right away, alluring and intriguing and, he'd wondered as he watched a thin stream of white smoke expel from them, would they be just as soft as they looked?

Tsuna's self-proclaimed 'right hand man' was, as he later learned, not just a smoker, but very near a chain one. It was an odd sight to see the skinny Italian go a day without his vice and, on the rare occasion he did, it was a scary one.

The scent that Yamamoto had long since associated with decay and hatred lingered potently around the man, a smoky haze of mystery and rebellion that only further grew with every puff of the thin, white sticks.

When Yamamoto brushed up close to him – close enough indeed for his fingers to lightly graze pristine white skin and feel an unfamiliar thrill shoot up his spine – he was able to discover just exactly what Gokudera Hayato smelt like.

There was the omnipresent scent of gunpowder and dynamite, wrapped tightly around him from his constant handling of explosives. There was the strange but no less amazing scent of a coming storm that so well matched him. There was the scent of death and loss and loneliness that he didn't even want to explore. There was the scent of expensive cologne, the scent of costly clothing, the scent of spice and…

Cigarette smoke.

It all blended together too perfectly, these conflicting elements, to form something that was so indescribable, so hard to vocalise, that Yamamoto could do nothing but swallow deeply and avert his eyes from a pair of questioning silver ones and shuffle away to avoid saying anything stupid that may lead to his imminent death.

Gokudera is very much like the cigarettes he smokes and the bombs he lights: highly flammable and likely to explode at any moment.

Yamamoto often wonders if Gokudera's naturally fiery personality is what drew him to cigarettes in the first place but never quite works up the courage to ask; he doesn't think his question would have been much appreciated.

So, he continues his pondering from afar, watching as Gokudera easily handles a lighter and turns the end of his cigarette a deep amber, tapping the ashes off the end with one flick of his slender fingers.

Gokudera is, in so many words, as intriguing as the cigarettes he smokes. And damn sexy too, although Yamamoto thinks he likely wouldn't voice that out loud.

And Yamamoto just can't stop watching him, no matter how much he has moaned in the past about the dangers of smoking; he's more than willing to risk his health if it means he can be that much closer to what is fast becoming his biggest infatuation.

The steely gaze set in a strangely beautiful face that looks more stunning than any man had the right to be, the soft strands of silver hair that snuck free from any bindings to dangle teasingly in front of a smooth brow only to be batted away impatiently by thin fingers, skin white and unblemished despite a childhood spent on the rough streets of Italy, frame lean and skinny, the result of an unbalanced diet and long hours spent training…

Even with a cigarette dangling from his hand, Gokudera is the most beautiful sight Yamamoto has ever seen.

… Especially with a cigarette dangling from his hand.

A sight that takes Yamamoto's breath away every time he sees it regardless of place, time or situation.

Yamamoto decides he can hardly be blamed when one day he has enough of merely looking from afar as the Italian bomber stretches in a way that causes his shirt to ride up and expose smooth skin pulled taunt over a jutting hip bone, smoke whirling in a mist around him as a cigarette hangs loosely from his lips, framed brilliantly against the thin sheet of glass that separates them from the pouring rain outside.

Such a beautiful rain, giving way, he is sure, to an epic storm.

Yamamoto stands by his remark that he can hardly be blamed when he wraps his fingers tightly around a skinny wrist and jerks Gokudera forward, causing the man to drop his smoke as he did so, stumbling against the Rain Guardian in an attempt to keep from falling over.

His skin is just as soft as Yamamoto often theorized it would be, and the evident shock and surprise of this sudden skinship stills any protest the smaller may have had about Yamamoto dragging him nearer, wrapping one arm around the exposed waist and causing the many belts loosely fastened there to jingle lightly, raising one hand to forcibly tilt Gokudera's chin upwards.

There's a brief moment of hesitation and Yamamoto pauses, looking down into Gokudera's gaze. He looks stunned, he looks apprehensive but, Yamamoto notices with a thill, he does not look disgusted.

It is this more than anything that allows Yamamoto to close the distance between them and press his lips against Gokudera's own in a fast, hungry kiss.

The sound of rain beating down against the roof is nothing but white noise in the background as Yamamoto pries open Gokudera's mouth and deepens the kiss, tightening his hold on the man as he presses them flush against one another, desperate, after so long spent in restraint, for the close contact.

Gokudera taste like everything he imagined he would. There's the faint hint of foreign spice that sends chills ghosting down his spine and, of course, the overpowering taste of nicotine and cigarettes.

Until that moment Yamamoto had never known cigarettes could taste so endlessly wonderful when coming from another's mouth.

A faint gasp comes from Gokudera only to drown in Yamamoto's own mouth as the pair topple backwards on to the forgiving surface of a mattress, the idea of personal space practically gone as Yamamoto braces one hand beside Gokudera, the other still firmly cupping his chin, Gokudera's fingers working their way into Yamamoto's hair and for one heart stopping second he think that he may push him away, that he's royally fucked up and that he would have been better off spending his time mastering restraint as opposed to staring endlessly at the object of his affections.

Instead Gokudera's grip tightens and he pulls him closer, returning the kiss with equal fever.

Yamamoto loses all form of reason.

The thin material of Gokudera's shirt is shoved upwards, allowing a questing hand to graze lightly along the exposed skin of his stomach while the other fumbled blindly with the belts – why must he wear so many belts?

"You taste amazing," is all Yamamoto can breathe out as his senses overload and his mind drowns from the feeling of Gokudera's tongue in his mouth, the taste of his cigarettes permeating but no less brilliant from the initial introduction.

Lips trail down a slender neck, pausing to bite lightly on Gokudera's shoulder, giving way to what will no doubt bloom into a brilliant mark of possession, one that Yamamoto has longed desperately to place.

Between the pair of them, all form of coherent thinking vanishes and Yamamoto tightens his grip on the hips beneath him, the pair's ragged breathing, the faint roar of the outside rain and the sound of rustling bed sheets the only noises in the room.

Gokudera's skin taste very much like his scent and Yamamoto regretfully wishes that he'd had the guts to do this earlier; maybe then they wouldn't have wasted so much time needlessly dancing around one another.

The feeling of Gokudera arching beneath his touch, soft gasps escaping his lips despite obviously desperate attempts to withhold them, the hands clawing at his back and the steady rocking of their hips is enough to drive Yamamoto crazy.

If there was such a things as too close, it would be this.

He has to wonder, through his haze of heat, pleasure and the overwhelming presence of Gokudera, why it is the other man is consenting to this, why he hasn't pushed him away or driven a stick of dynamite up where it counts. Why it is, that he's allowed to capture skinny wrists in one hand and slam them above him, forcibly kissing the slender man beneath him until his lips are red.

He wants to ask, he really does, but decides it's probably not a question for the moment and instead focuses on the sweating, hopelessly flushed boy beneath him, and instead of pondering how it is he got here, Yamamoto instead just decides to enjoy the moment as much as he can, as he doubts it'll happen again.

Sleeping with Gokudera was exhilarating, nothing but heat and pleasure, and the feeling of closeness that could only be achieved through intimate contact. The sweet feeling of pale flesh responding to his touch, the beautiful sound of Gokudera moaning his name, warm breath gusting against his neck…

Afterwards they lay side by side panting for breath, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and Yamamoto hears the faint flick of a lighter and turns his head to see Gokudera propped up against the pillows, face turned away from him although the visible tips of his ears are a brilliant red. Yamamoto watches with a faint smile as Gokudera slides a cigarette between his lips and tries to light it although his fingers aren't nearly as steady as he'd clearly like.

He struggles onwards for a few moments, shaking his lighter when the flame at the top flickers out and dies before turning his head and catching Yamamoto smiling at him. Flustered he stutters, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

"I like watching you smoke," Yamamoto confessed without any preamble, deftly leaving out any mention of his usual distaste for the addiction, "I've always thought it made you look sexy."

Gokudera splutters wordlessly for a moment, cheeks lighting up even brighter than before as he slips back into Italian for a moment to insult Yamamoto with more fluency than his stuttering disposition allowed.

Yamamoto calmly permitted for this to continue on for several minutes, only because he knew Gokudera and he knew that without something to distract him from … well, the utterly mind-blowing sex they just had, he'd die of embarrassment. However, it would have helped if the partially lit cigarette was not wedged between his fingers as he ranted and raved.

Seeing Gokudera covered only in a light sheet draped across his lap, hickies littering his body and mused hair sticking lightly to his sweaty faced with a cigarette held loosely in one hand did not exactly help Yamamoto's self-control.

Well, he'd gotten away with it once already, why the hell not?

Far off there was the sound of the storm rolling in, but Yamamoto barely noticed it as he pressed Gokudera back down into the mattress, revelling in the sharp taste of the now familiar cigarettes and exotic spice.

For the time being, Yamamoto decided, it was best not to dwindle on the details of the how, what, when and why, but instead focus instead on the now and the firm body pressed flush beneath him.

They had all the time in the world to talk things out, to delve into the depths of the reason, but for now, Yamamoto was content with the feel of flesh on flesh and the addicting taste of nicotine spiralling along his tastebuds.

Yamamoto Takeshi found that smoking, in smell and in taste, might not be such a bad thing after all.