Written for khrfest on livejournal.
Prompt: Gokudera/Yamamoto - alcohol, "Let me paint your nails."
Gokudera knows that every alcoholic beverage contains a certain percentage of ethyl alcohol - a psychoactive drug that is a bit volatile and rather flammable colorless liquid. He can belt out its physical and chemical properties without missing a beat, can see its molecular and empirical formulas when he closes his eyes, and can list at least thirty reactions grouped by ester formation, dehydration, combustion, acid-based chemistry, halogenation and oxidation while thinking about battle strategies as he prepares his breakfast in the morning. (He learned pretty much everything about alcohol while he was living with Shamal.)
He also knows that consuming those drinks which contain that certain chemical in vast quantities may lead to rather undesirable and highly embarrassing results. (He also learned that while he was living with Shamal.)
Currently, he doesn't give a shit.
When Yamamoto came into their room earlier that evening, with his characteristic grin a notch brighter and his whole posture radiating this-is-going-to-be-fun vibes while waving a bottle full of something in Gokudera's direction, Gokudera's fingers twitched for his cigarettes.
When Gokudera finished his impromptu mini-speech about the cons of underage drinking (complete with simple charts and diagrams so even Yamamoto could understand at least the basics); Yamamoto only hummed, the happy little pleasure noise resonating in the sudden silence of the room, uncapped the bottle and promptly took a swig.
"It's good. Try it," Yamamoto said, handing him the bottle, and Gokudera rolled his eyes while muttering about baseball idiots, but reached for it anyway. The thing smelled of honey and pepper and tasted like glue, sticking to the back of his tongue and burning his throat as he swallowed. He almost choked, but bit the inside of his mouth and held his breath because Yamamoto didn't and he made it look so easy. Bastard. He looked right at Yamamoto, eyes narrowed and flaring heat, and took another swallow.
Things went rather downhill from there, until the bottle was almost empty and Gokudera's whole body felt numb. Somewhere along the line Uri decided to slip out of the room (how or why the door had been opened, and how the animal had found its way out of the box, Gokudera couldn't remember); and he decided to track the cat down before it got lost or ended up dead or dared to wake up the Tenth. (And also because he secretly believed that Uri was a bakeneko, so the animal should be treated with the care and attention a highly endangered mythological creature required. He simply couldn't wait for it to change into a nekomata.) Yamamoto decided to track Gokudera because he took the bottle with him.
That's how they somehow ended up in the bedroom of his future self.
"Hey, look! You've a big lighter collection," Yamamoto says, the words' edges fuzzy and slurred, but Gokudera is too busy taking in the design of, well, his room to really take a look at his surely impressive lighter collection. The whole space gleams with solid black and light chrome, accenting the deepest shade of red of the carpet and silk drape decorations. Three Salvator Rosa landscape paintings hang on the wall - two close to the king-sized bed - and Gokudera can tell that all of them are originals.
"Fuck, but I have taste," he breathes.
"Gokudera," Yamamoto calls after a few beats of silence, and the slight confusion in his voice is enough to shake Gokudera from his awe. "Do you paint your nails?"
Gokudera turns his head so fast he fears his neck will snap - it's a dangerous move because the room suddenly starts spinning and his stomach feels like it's on a rollercoaster.
"What?! Of course not you idiot, how can you even…" he snaps, but his tongue is too numb, his teeth sit wrongly in his mouth and his voice sounds odd. Huh. Strange.
"Well, you," Yamamoto starts then stops, frowns a little and continues, "or more like the future you has nail polish on the desk. Several bottles, in fact."
Gokudera stares.
"You seem to prefer dark colors. Especially black," Yamamoto explains, picking up one of the tiny bottles from the polished surface.
Gokudera stares, blinks, and stares some more at that thing dangling between Yamamoto's fingers before shaking his head, making the walls twirl around him.
"I wouldn't. I have awesome taste, so it's impossible. It's against the law of the universe," he says confidently, swaying slightly on his feet because even the floor is moving now. Fucking room.
Yamamoto's already reaching for Gokudera's hand, his grin lopsided and eyes hazy before his gleeful voice slaps Gokudera in the face.
"Let me paint your nails."
Gokudera thinks he should be drinking more often because when he finally succeeds in punching Yamamoto after a few missed tries, his hand doesn't even sting.
*
He wakes to a loud bang and his head feels like it's splitting in two. His mouth tastes like sandpaper, his lips are parched when he tentatively licks them and his body aches just as much as after his rather humiliating defeat from Gamma.
A painful groan - which he recognizes as Yamamoto's - comes from his right, and he doesn't even have the strength to feel embarrassed that they have, apparently, somehow ended up in the same bed. He just wants to curl into a tiny little ball, pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep or die quickly, whichever comes first. It's all that fucking baseball idiot's fault anyway - when he can move again, Gokudera's going to punch him and kick him, blow him up and kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Numerous times.
He's never drinking again. Ever.
There's movement in the room, and Gokudera blinks his eyes open, gaze unfocused and vision blurry.
"Hayato, have you seen my black nail polish? I think I've stored it in your room." Bianchi's voice is a quiet lull, but the sound snaps on Gokudera's sensitized nerves like leather whip.
He looks at his sister standing by his desk, arms folded and eyes questioning, her face smooth and lips painted cherry pink.
Gokudera rolls onto his side at the edge of the bed, and promptly throws up.