Collection of drabbles. 8059 mostly :)

Disclaimer: The boys and KHR are not mine!

On with the fic.

A bowl of cereal lies idle on the table, long forgotten and long gone cold.

Next to the bowl there is a pair of knitting needles, next to the needles lies the yarn. It's yellow and fluffy; in his eyes it's a garish color standing out on the thousand thread count bed sheet dyed a deep blue which only made the ball standout some more in all its imperfect glory with a single thick and wooly strand sticking outside reminding him of someone all too familiar who is also sloppy and always, always has to stick out like a sore thum-

Gokudera stops himself there.

I'm waiting for you.

Even if you don't tell me, I'll still wait for you.

Even if I don't want it, I'll wait for you.

I hate it, I hate you.

I hate it that you can make me wait for you.

The world in Yamamoto's mind is simple but it doesn't necessarily mean that his eyes only see black and white though there are places in his mind wherein he locks those kinds of memories.

Xanxus was black. He could see black around that person, he could see black inside.

Tsuna on the other hand is white, there is a reason why Tsuna got to be boss here, he thinks.

Someone somewhere told him that white is actually the color we get on mixing all the colors of the rainbow and Tsuna is like a little bit of everything and it all makes sense in his head.

Then there is Squalo; Squalo gets to be a gray.

Yamamoto did not take a liking to Squalo on the first meeting but then they say people tend to grow on you once you get to know them and he reasons that's what must have happened.

Each clash of swords, cut, and bruise inflicted, every minute that passed he was finding that he couldn't really dislike the guy, they were different in ways he couldn't understand and he knew he wanted to win, even so.

These days he became quite happy to see the one whom Gokudera benignly calls fish-face/shark-breath and the likes.

Of course he hasn't verified whether the feeling is mutual.

And then there is Gokudera.

Gokudera gets to be neither black, nor white. Not gray even; he gets to be a red.

It's a bright color and it's the color of Gokudera's flame, it's also the color of blood, love and whatnot; Yamamoto did not put such deep thinking into associating the same with Gokudera.'

Yamamoto just likes that color.

Yamamoto doesn't care much for the prize; it's the win that is important. The prize could be a chest of gold or a lump of clay or just a title in a child's game and he could care less.

The process is fun and he loves to play.

So when Gokudera says he is the tenth's (he still doesn't know why Gokudera calls Tsuna that) right hand, he just has to butt in, any kind of competition he can take it on.

He wants it, he wants his place and he is not going to let other's take it, not that easily anyway.

Yamamoto takes a liking to things which shine far too easily for his own good.

The first time when the bat turned into a sword it felt uneasy in his hands. Yamamoto knew he was swinging it just like he would the bat but it was still strange after all; the sword sliced the wind in ways different than his bat ever would and it reeked of many a perils to come but still, still, still it shone and it glistened and his eyes could in the end only followed the sparkle.

'Why the heck are you following me?'

'Ahaha, it's ok isn't it? We are going the same way!'

He knows how to sense danger but he simply doesn't know how to keep away from it; Gokudera is danger in every which way possible but whenever he sees Gokudera, the others' silver hair are always sparkling and the rest is history more or less.

Yamamoto loves baseball; it would be ok to say that Yamamoto loves baseball more than he loves himself and there is a reason for this, because baseball loves him back too.

Their relationship goes deep that way, it can be said that they are one. Whenever he picks a ball (or any object for that matter) he becomes the pitcher, whenever anything happens to come flying at him, he becomes the batter, and the lack of a bat can be compensated by sword/stick whatever his hand can grab at the moment.

Yes, baseball has given him so much. He cannot imagine a 'him' without baseball.

His heart is divided into fixed-size compartments.

That's just the way it works with Gokudera and its permanent. If he imagines it in his head he can see it like a diagram with lines, both straight and crisscross, something like a pie-chart with assigned percentages.

Eighty percent space belongs to the Vongola Decimo. That's a given. If he could, he would have offered hundred percent or heck even more but he has to keep eighteen percent for his mother, the woman he barely remembers (what he does remember is silver hair, soft voice, music flowing from her fingers, smell of fragrant olives, peaceful days) and the only woman he never wants to forget.

2% is for Bianchi. She doesn't need more than that and he doesn't have more left.

'You know when we grow up, I want nine kids.'

'…'

'That way it'll be a whole team! Cool, huh?'

Gokudera wonders why the fuck is Yamamoto telling crap to him, he has better things to do than listen to baseball infested ideas of family planning.

'A pitcher, few batters, some runners, some on the infield…'

'For starters think of the poor woman giving birth, you moron! ' That was only applicable if Yamamoto was planning to do it with the same woman, unlike some irresponsible fuckers with no control over their libido, 'Don't you think anything other than baseball?' Baseball freak.

'Ahaha… But I do.'

The dumb response is met with a cold teal glare.

'I think about you.'

The look on Gokudera's face changes to something akin to w-t-f.

' …and Tsuna and the kids and the girls too…' Yamamoto smiles like an idiot and Gokudera hurls the nearest tangible object in his face which Yamamoto deftly dodges.

His heart is full and there is no space left; there was never much to begin with.

But Yamamoto doesn't seem to understand that; he is prying it and leaving cracks in the process, tiny ones because that's all he can do but even in those he is making places for himself.

At times like these Gokudera's hands go clammy, it's difficult to swear, it's difficult to even breathe and he wishes that the other would stop because his heart feels like it is crumbling at Yamamoto's fingers and into the palms of his big, baseball hands.

Squalo did not teach him fear, rather he reminded him of it.

The times when Yamamoto had been afraid/scared/petrified were far and few.

There was that one time when he was all of six and tried to get friendly with the unearthly dog that happened to be the neighbor's pet (was that really a dog?). He had extended his then little hand and the dog (creature) had sniffed; he had happily patted a wet, black nose and the canine barked. The bark had begun with a low growl and exploded into a sound which resonated through his body.

It was not like he meant to get scared – at that age he didn't know what fear was (whether he does now is still in doubt) all he knew was that his body had frozen and he could not move, the creature was staring at him with dark, luminous eyes and his own eyes had become wide; it barked again and he flew inches off the ground.
Cut to the present. Cut to when Squalo was hovering over his head; the grin on his face was disturbing.

Move. Move. Move.

His body wouldn't listen.

And it had been déjà vu all over again.

Gokudera loves the boss and he has no qualms whatsoever admitting the same.

The love that he feels for the tenth is love in its purest form.

Tsuna is after all the sky so blue and stretching far, far, afar; even if he strains he knows he'll never be able to grasp all of it in once glance but he strains and strains and he tries to see, tries to remember.

Warm brown eyes which don't just look at the person before but slowly and surely see into the being, a sheepish and forgiving smile, a voice too young, a tad uncertain and gentle… 'There is no meaning in it if you don't come back alive. Such a fight… I don't want to win it!'…

But always strong, it resonates in his head and it keeps him going.

The only place for a storm is the sky. The sky which is forbearing of the even the destruction the storm leaves in its wake.

I'll wait for you.

Even if you don't want it I'll wait for you, no matter how long you take, I'll be here.

Even if you hate me for it, I'll wait for you.

I'll walk beside you, always, always.

I love you. You can hate me if you want, but I'll still love you anyway.

His doubts about kissing are as normal as they come.

These days they have been watching Italian movies; they are always playing in the background whenever Yamamoto knocks on Gokudera's door.

Not that Yamamoto actually understands what's going on. The music is dull, slow but the scenes are pretty; the streets look so different than what they have back home (long and winding and winding, makes him want to go on a walk), he loves the colors of the sky, more often than not he is looking for sunsets; he can't quite explain it but they seem more beguiling on the foreign skies and he finds himself glued to the idiot box (Gokudera finds it befitting – the idiot and the idiot box and hence doesn't disturb).

Needless to say a substantial part of any romance at its best is the kissing and while he has no qualms watching it there is a question that bugs him like anything.

'Na Gokudera… Don't they want to…like, breathe?'

Gokudera is without a doubt a genius in the family and can explain nearly any and all queries with the help of logic, mathematics and science and he actually does have an answer to the stupid, stupid question but the moment he tries to speak all he can do is sputter and his face goes red.

So what comes out instead is a flurry of curses, all in impeccable Italian, choice expletives which he knows are wasted on the idiot so he throws in a dynamite stick for his self satisfaction.

Yamamoto does get his answer soon.

It's a dark corner of a murky street, there is graffiti on the wall and it's the best place they could find for this kind of thing; Gokudera is glaring at him.

He grins. Gokudera continues to glare. He draws nearer, Gokudera still keeps glaring; the flush on pale cheeks is a little lost in the dim, dim lights.

By now he knows how to differentiate between the 'I'll blow you into bitty pieces and those bitty pieces into more bitty pieces' and the 'I want it but fuck I'm going to glare'looks; this one happens to be the latter.

'Gokudera, I'm going to kiss you. '

'The fuck you will! You, you…you…little bas- Mmph!'

Their noses didn't bump. The next day Yamamoto sported a black eye with an even bigger grin than usual.

Even if ten years pass, he knows he'll never get tired of the marvelous sound those fingers make on keys black and white.

The times where Yamamoto secretly listens to the other's piano are many.

Often it is Gokudera simply practicing, whether for leisure or for the sake of distraction or for drowning sorrows he is not privy to know. It doesn't matter; if he happens to pass by, he'll stop and listen, eyes closed, just taking in the music which flows from beautiful fingertips and when it stops he leaves, silently applauding the performance because things tend to get explosive when he is vocal about the same.

Then there are the times when Gokudera actually indulges him.

'Hey, Gokudera? Play for me. '

There was red on the corner of the otherwise white collar even after they used peroxide. Yamamoto wasn't himself and Gokudera didn't need to ask why.

People die. Shit happens. Idiot.

Words are not voiced and Gokudera plays, choosing a quiet melody. Halfway through the performance Yamamoto decides to join him, tan fingers on pale ones and the music goes awry, Gokudera's finger's clench around whatever surface that he can grip but he stays silent, Yamamoto turns his face around, stares once before gently brushing lips on chin, lips on cheeks and Gokudera has difficulty breathing but he is not punching. Yamamoto murmurs something before pressing lips on lips.

It's the second time they have kissed.

Slowly but surely, he or rather they are falling into the habit.

They were never really friends and they failed even more so at being enemies and even after they lie beside each other – hot, sweaty, messy, damp hair and clammy fingers, suits wrinkled and violated in ways that shouldn't even be possible (Armani when used to fasten wrists feels erotic; somehow the bastard found out his fetish ), gasping for breath, they still don't know who or what they are.

Yamamoto has the gall to smile when it's done, thread long fingers through his hair, murmuring nothings in that idiotic, sappy voice and Gokudera knows he should be yelling, baring his claws, clearly establishing his space in the close confines of that room, on that bed – basically just tell the other to hell out of there but instead he shivers and the noise he makes sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

Of course, he hates himself for it.

Gokudera doesn't see a point in hearing what he knows already.

'Gokudera, what I'm going tell you is a little…'

'Shut up. '

'Just hear me out, ok?'

'I said. Shut. Up.'

'Gokudera, I…'

They have this conversation n number of times with different variations and every single time Gokudera doesn't wait around to listen. He can't afford to because he has no idea how he'll react if he hears it.

For ten years he watches the other grow, from an awkward caterpillar into a butterfly.

It almost seems like yesterday – Yamamoto is standing in front of him, Yamamoto has a bat in his hand or maybe he is tossing a ball up in the air…

Yamamoto is grinning, the baseball idiot was never great at getting the tie done right either and was always the first one to shrug out of a suit, faster than the Tenth even… Yamamoto is blabbing about the 'Mafia' game.

The Yamamoto who stood before him spoke about missions, branch offices and what not.

The words attack and counter are thrown somewhere in between and Gokudera is trying to listen because its fucking important (it might just decide roughly how many wounds Yamamoto will return with two days from now). Sleek black hangs over broad shoulders, the subtle gestures the other makes with fingers long and slender are graceful; the tie is perfectly in place, it's all poise and it's all gait and everything about the rain guardian is just effortless.

The mirth in brown eyes is subdued and the warmth is still there, but he has seen them go cold, seen them go icy and Gokudera knows he is talking to the natural born hitman.

For ten years Gokudera watched the other grow into a person he barely recognized and for God knows what reason he felt guilty but Yamamoto is still here, still comes back to him before going to the Tenth even.

Naturally he berated the other for the same every single time – the Tenth was always supreme, the Tenth was top priority but for some reason which he cannot or rather does not want to discern he also feels happiness; again a guilty pleasure.

Love just had to be something as fucked up as this.

They were never really friends and failed even more so at being enemies and Yamamoto actually knew that quite well.

Gokudera was tolerating him. For Tsuna maybe or for God knows what greater good.
But then there was one thing that wouldn't change, one single thing that binds – no forcibly ties them together.

'Hey Gokudera, we are on the same side. '

They lie beside each other between sheets and bodies tangled, breathing soft, shaky, a trickle of sweat sliding trickling down the chin or disappearing into hair already damp and there is no greater good concerned but he knows Gokudera will always keep tolerating him and every single time that they wake up together it's like a dream come true all over again.

Yamamoto, Gokudera realizes that is like cigarettes; bad for him and will eventually kill him, above all an addiction which he possibly won't be able to live without. The thought horrifies him.

Together we'll wait. At the same place. Making excuses. There was nothing to wait for to begin with you see.

You are here. I'm here. This is the only place we can be.

We are waiting for each other. To look, to see, acknowledge.

This love, its right before us.

'Tadaima!'

'Just get the fuck inside. Wha- You idiot! You are getting the carpet all wet! '

And Gokudera doesn't quite know or understand when, but the smell of rain started feeling like home.

Owari

A/N: comments much loved ^^ thank you for reading!