Story Title: The Molotov Bombs
Rated: G to NC-17 for language, violence, and sexual situations
Status: Complete || 4100+
Summary: [Yamamoto/Gokudera] One day, an foreign exchange student named Gokudera Hayato arrives in his classroom. Or, twenty-three ways to deconstruct a relationship.
Steve's Notes: These drabbles were written for pectus_pectoris' 8059 Meme on LiveJournal. Originally, each prompt was supposed to be filled by a single sentence, but there were many that needed more than just a sentence. Some of these prompts are silly and some are serious. I hope you like them! 3
Disclaimer: Katekyou Hitman Reborn! © Amano Akira
01: [...] is my default
"I don't get it," Yamamoto says with a sincere and confused smile. "Isn't Hanna supposed to be a girl's name?"
Gokudera rolls his eyes at Yamamoto's idiocy; {...} rolls his eyes too, as Hanna turns red and proceeds to rant about how his name is not a girl's name, thank you very much.
02: once is more than enough
When Yamamoto flat lines for fifty-eight seconds on the operating table, Gokudera spits venomously, helplessly, "Don't you fucking dare."
03: twitching
Despite the initial discomfort—the stretch and the burn of Hayato entering—Takeshi loves being beneath Hayato when they have sex. He loves Hayato over him, taking him, whispering filthy, dirty, violent things into the shell of his ear. He loves how Hayato pushes his thumbs into the hollow of his knees and forces Takeshi's legs beyond a comfortable angle, folded in half and used like a whore. He loves the ten, perfect bruises that form on his thighs like fingerprints, the undeniable evidence of their brutal time together.
But the thing he loves most about being beneath Hayato is this: when Hayato comes, one, two, three thrusts after Takeshi has had his orgasm wrenched from him, his jaw tightens and his whole body goes stiff. Then his shoulders start to quake, his thighs begin to shiver, and every inhale and exhale shakes. He collapses on top of Takeshi, too tired and too satiated to roll to the side, and Takeshi wraps his arms around Hayato's trembling frame, their sweat-slick bodies almost too hot to keep together.
"You're an idiot," Hayato whispers as Takeshi buries his nose into Hayato's hair.
"Yeah," Takeshi says simply, happiness suffusing him as Hayato allows the intimate comfort. He wants to say 'I love you' but he thinks that saying it would be redundant; so he just whispers, "Yeah."
04: Cavallone estate
It's one of those dinners that's long and boring, with too much wine and too much tension, and Hayato knows the only reason he followed Takeshi into the darkness of the corridor was because of that extra, damnable glass of Amarone Dino pressed on him; as Takeshi grinds against, whispering filthy promises and laughing moronically into his ear, Hayato thinks, I hope the bastard knows.
05: this picture
It burns, hurts almost as much as the twinge of his still pink, still tender wounds—but Takeshi threads his fingers through his fingers, through his hair, and smiles in that stupid, perfect way that tells Hayato they will make it through.
06: crossover
Yamamoto laughs as Sasuke's sword flashes downwards in an arc; he catches it with a flick of his wrist, the length of his katana rasping against the straight edge of Sasuke's chokutou. Gokudera swears he sees sparks.
"Your guy is pretty good," Naruto says from the sidelines, crouched in the dirt and looking up at Gokudera. "Where did you say you guys come from, again?"
"Japan," Gokudera replies nonchalantly. He flicks his cigarette to the ground and grinds it beneath a heel. Then, with a glance upwards at the evenly matched fight playing out before them, he says, "He's not my guy. He's an idiot."
Naruto smirks lazily, but his eyes are locked on the fight. "And Sasuke's a bastard, but that doesn't make them any less ours, does it."
In response, Gokudera flips Naruto the bird and lights another cigarette.
07: still a child
The boy who comes to the future is and isn't Hayato. This is why he can't stop himself from pulling is-and-isn't-Hayato into the circle of his arms, from burying his nose in his hair, from breathing deep and aching. Is-and-isn't-Hayato tenses and struggles, but he is not—was never—physically stronger than Takeshi.
"What do you think you're doing, you fucking moron?" the boy snarls.
"Something I shouldn't," Takeshi whispers softly, and uses his hand to tilt is-and-isn't-Hayato's stubborn chin upwards.
08: watch it burn
The smell of gasoline overpowers the heavy smell of the sea the moment before Hayato ignites a match and flicks it nonchalantly into the accelerant. The fire that follows softens the sharp edges of Hayato's suit and the determined set of his face; when Hayato fucks him hard and fast against the wall of another warehouse, it's all Takeshi can do to keep the world from turning to ash around them.
09: on repeat
Gokudera doesn't know why Lady Gaga is on repeat in the background as Yamamoto smirks, drops to his knees, and opens Gokudera's fly with his teeth—who the hell is listening to Lady Gaga, anyway? This is the fucking mafia—but a couple days later when Alejandro filters in through the radio, Gokudera is instantly, shockingly hard.
10: lollipop
Yamamoto has always been fascinated by Gokudera's mouth—the way it tilts with Italian curses or wraps around the end of a cigarette—but this is the first time Yamamoto has wanted to suck the cherry red off his stained lips.
11: underwear modeling
Gokudera models the stranger items—the black silk, the barely there, the downright bizarre—because it suits him and his lean frame, his carefully tousled hair and cat-green eyes, the rings on his fingers and the dark tattoo dipping low on pelvic bone. He looks good and he knows he looks good, and it's evident in everything he does, from the smoky curl of his smirk to the tilt of his swagger.
This is, of course, before the Vongola signs in Yamamoto Takeshi, a former major league baseball player. Yamamoto is tall and tan and fit, each muscle defined and tight along the length of his body. He walks down the runway with confidence and a casualty rarely seen in modeling, but it steals the breath of every critic and every designer. He and Gokudera are rivals, of sorts, even though they have the same employer and often work for the same designer. Reborn says it's because they have complimentary styles that bring something intangible to a show, but Gokudera suspects the scout is blowing smoke out his ass.
Or, at least he was, until Yamamoto corners him in a backstage dressing room in Milan. "I feel in love with your picture," Yamamoto murmurs as he runs his hands along Gokudera's sides. "You were so beautiful and strong, but you looked like glass, and I always thought that if I touched you, you would break. Haha, you would never break; I was an idiot to think that, wasn't I?"
Gokudera chokes out, "You still are an idiot—" but Yamamoto wedges a slim, smooth thigh between Gokudera's thighs and kisses him like they aren't behind a screen in a very, very busy place, kisses him like he is a man dying, kisses him like he looks at him sometimes when he steps off the catwalk. And Gokudera has been kissed before, has been worshiped before, but there's something different in the way Yamamoto holds him that makes Gokudera think that this isn't just fanaticism.
Then, from the dressing area where the other models and designers are bustling about in last minute preparation, Lussuria sing-songs, "Has anyone seen my favorite boys?" and they have to pull away before they're exposed. Gokudera tries to shove Yamamoto off him, but Yamamoto puts his hands up, palms on either side of Gokudera's neck, pressed to the flutter of his jugular.
"Later?" he whispers. His lips are still red and wet and oh fuck, Gokudera wants to bite them. "Gokudera, please, this isn't—"
Gokudera slams his mouth against Yamamoto's and runs his knuckles hard against Yamamoto's groin. A moment later, he pulls back with a pop.
"Later," Gokudera replies roughly, desperately, and comes out from behind the screen.
12: this picture
"You know, I think I might grow a beard," Takeshi says one morning, peering into the mirror over Hayato's shoulder. "I think it would make me look dashing, haha."
Hayato rolls his eyes before spitting into the sink and putting his red toothbrush next to Takeshi's blue one. Then he reaches upwards and captures Takeshi's chin between thumb and forefinger. "Come here," he says, and pulls Takeshi forward until there's nothing between them but tongue, teeth, and slow, gentle warmth not unlike the sunlight filtering in through the window.
"Shave it," Hayato grunts when they pull away. "You already chafe enough."
13: aliens
Takeshi was, in a word, terrified.
He had woken up that morning with no headache—Strange, he thought. I did drink that whole bottle of saké.—and with no clothing. Instead, he was sprawled over what he knew from glimpses was Gokudera's bed, with nothing covering him but the corner of a cotton sheet and Gokudera's arm. He took a moment to smile inanely at Gokudera's lax, sleeping face and touch Gokudera's pink mouth gently with the pad of his thumb—then Gokudera shifted, muttered, and rolled away from Takeshi.
This was when reality set it, hard. Takeshi had liked Gokudera for a long time, in a strange, simple, but largely ambiguous way; he had thought about kissing and touching and even sex, yet he never thought Gokudera would allow him more than an arm slung around his shoulder. So he never said anything and let his feelings fade into the background of their strengthening friendship, content—for the time being—about the pace and tone of their camaraderie.
That, of course, was before the alcohol.
Takeshi could remember little snatches of the night before, seemingly innoucous things that turn into smoldering embers in the pit of his stomach: the way Gokudera choked on a gasp, how Gokudera's hair felt beneath his fingers, how Gokudera's heels dug into the small of Takeshi's back. Everything else was a black, heavy fuzz. As he picked his clothes up—his jeans on the couch, his sweater across the counter, his boxers under a chair—he wondered what Gokudera would remember, if he remembered anything at all.
Takeshi sat by his cellphone the entire morning and into early afternoon before Gokudera called. Heart hammering inside his ribcage, Takeshi answered with a cheerful, is slightly strained, "Hello?"
"What the fuck happened last night?" Gokudera snarled without preamble.
"Ah," Takeshi started, but got no farther than his rehearsed, "Well, there's was a lot of saké—"
"I woke up in my bed, fucking naked, and I don't remember what the fuck we did last night after watching your stupid game; and you said, 'Haha, have you ever had saké?' and then you fucking got me drunk and now my fucking ass hurts and I—I was abducted by motherfucking aliens who fucking anal probed me and I can't sit down on my goddamned kitchen chair and fuck, you idiot, why the fuck did you let those fucking shit-fucking aliens take me you stupid piece of shit—"
It went on like that for a good twenty minutes, Gokudera ranting and cussing into the phone before making Takeshi swear that he wouldn't tell Tsuna. Takeshi gave his word, Gokudera hung up, and Takeshi wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that the first thing Gokudera thought of when he woke up with a sore ass was alien abduction and not anal sex.
14: cellphone camera
His jacket is undone and slipping off his shoulders, the sharp angles muddled against the leather of the backseat; the row of small, pearl buttons of his blue shirt are undone and gleaming against the tan and scars of his sweaty, bruised skin. The thin tie Hayato picked out for him months and months ago is a knotted wreck between his pebbled, dusky nipples—he must have pinched them, flicked them, scratched them. His leather belt is unbuckled, his fly is undone, and everything is tight against the tops of his thighs where his legs try to stretch as far apart as they can, the fabric of slacks and the lack of room in the car impeding the athletic stretch.
But the focus of the picture is torn between the full, heavy erection in Takeshi's hand and the open, wanton expression on Takeshi's face. His cock glistens, even in the low light—he must have spit on his palm before pushing into the circle of his hand, or maybe he even had lube in his breast pocket. His flush stretches from his cheeks to his clavicles, and his white teeth gleam against the bitten red of his mouth. Even his hair looks debauched, wild and sticking to the crown of his forehead.
"Hey," Lambo says from across the table. "What's that?"
"None of your fucking business," Hayato says as he snaps his cellphone shut and sticks it back in his pocket. He stands up, brushes of his suitcoat in a brusque, serious manner, and turns to Tsuna. "Yamamoto is waiting for me in the car. I'll get back to you when I have more information."
"Alright," Tsuna replies, waving a hand at the door. "I don't want Yamamoto waiting too long. Have a good trip."
"Thank you, Juudaime," Hayato nearly smirks. "I will."
15: spin the bottle
It's Haru and Kyoko and Gokudera and Yamamoto and Tsuna and one of those days in the past that's after the future when they all just want to forget. They're sitting in Tsuna's room, crowded around the square table; the plate of snacks Nana made has been decimated by teenage appetites and there might be some saké involved, but just enough to bring a flush to Tsuna's cheeks and turn Haru's giggles sharp. So when the conversation lulls sometime after midnight and they're all staring at the white of the ceiling or the dark, star-studded night beyond the window, someone suggests, "Hey, have you guys ever played...?"
They find a bottle in the small chaos of Tsuna's room, and set it on the table. Haru goes first and pecks Tsuna on the lips, her fingers briefly alighting on his shoulders; Tsuna spins, and kisses Kyoko, so nervous that he kisses the corner of her mouth. Kyoko gets Yamamoto and their kiss lasts a half second, but is full of laughter before and after. Then it's Yamamoto's turn and the glass grinds to a slow stop on Gokudera, whose unseen knuckles have turned white underneath the table.
"Uhh," Tsuna starts as the girls hold their breath and Gokudera scowls at bottle, as though trying to make it explode. "Uhh, Yamamoto, you don't have to—"
"Hahaha, that's okay!" Yamamoto says, a blush staining his cheeks even as he shrugs and attempts to look nonchalant. "I'm okay with it. Are—if that's okay, Gokudera?"
Gokudera opens his mouth as though he's about to snap a very loud and angry fuck no, but he bites it back. "Che," he snorts instead. "I don't care what you fucking do."
"Alright," Yamamoto says softly, his smile turning into something softer and more intimate. He shifts until he's close to Gokudera, closer than he had been to Kyoko, so that the heat of his body sinks into Gokudera's skin. He sets on hand on Gokudera's hand and places the other just underneath Gokudera's ear, his thumb against the corner of Gokudera's eye. They look at each other for a breath—Gokudera is stiff and tense, Yamamoto is cautious—before they kiss.
It starts out with their mouths pressed together, their eyes open and staring at one another. Then Gokudera's eyelids flutter shut and he pushes forward minutely, and Yamamoto shifts onto his knees, leaning forward and crushing Gokudera's mouth against his. There's the flash of a tongue and suddenly their lips part and Gokudera's tongue is inside Yamamoto's mouth and Yamamoto whines, a high, reedy noise that is almost strange as it emerges from his throat and there is a flash of teeth and slick noises and sucking noises and Tsuna chokes as Gokudera tugs Yamamoto into his lap, Yamamoto's lean thighs on either side of his hips.
"Ahh," Yamamoto says as Gokudera jerks away as though he had forgotten the other were there, his face suddenly the same color as Tsuna's. He doesn't shove Yamamoto away, though. "Haha, Gokudera's a good kisser!"
Haru and Kyoko trade a look that isn't all that surprised, and Tsuna finally manages to breath again. "I—I think we should pick a different game," he blurts.
"Yes, Tenth!" and "Haha, sure thing, Tsuna!" come out at the same time, almost drowning out Haru's small, petulant, "Damnit."
16: silver and red
He didn't look—he didn't fucking look—and Hayato rasps a litany of nonsense as he tries to staunch the bullet wound—don't do this, you can't do this, you fucking idiot, why didn't you look?—but there's blood, so much blood, over his fingers and the silver rings adorning them.
17: something in your mouth
He tightens his fingers in Takeshi's hair, pulls on it until he whines in his throat from the pain—but Hayato's other hand is firm against the base of Takeshi's skull, keeping his head in place. The noise vibrates around him and he groans, thrusting forward hard, spit leaking from the corner of Takeshi's red, red mouth.
"What—was—that?" Hayato sneers between each snap of his hips. "There's—something—in—your—mouth—"
18: car crash
It's like a terribly bad car crash—Tsuna knows he should be doing something other than stare (like run, screaming, in the opposite direction)—but when Gokudera falls to his knees and sucks all of Yamamoto into his mouth and Yamamoto's head cracks against the wall and there is a long, low moan in the hot air, all Tsuna can do is watch.
19: boys will be boys
There are kisses and fingers and tongues, and eventually, they're naked; straddled atop Yamamoto, Gokudera looks down and smirks. "I win," he says playfully, and Yamamoto chokes back a delighted, silly laugh.
20: motorcycle
His thighs clench around the black and silver frame of the sleek motorcycle, each muscle highlighted by the tight pair of dark wash jeans he wears. A racing jacket with white stripes stretches across his shoulders, the two buttons at his tan throat undone; there is a pair of heavy combat boots on his feet and fingerless leather gloves over his hands. When he pulls off his helmet, Hayato is surprised to see that he has an oval face and almond eyes reminiscent of his mother's.
"Ciao," the Japanese man begins in a heavily accented Italian, a large, easy smile on his face. "Ah... vado a Firenze?"
"Well, you're going in the wrong fuckin' direction," Hayato replies in swift Japanese. He takes another drag on his cigarette. "Florence is north, north west of here."
"Ah, you speak Japanese!" The other man's smile becomes larger and more idiotic as he pushes his motorcycle's kickstand down with his heel. He extends a leather-clad hand. "I'm Yamamoto Takeshi."
Hayato eyes the extended hand, but takes it after a moment where he looks at Yamamoto like he would look at something on the bottom of his boot and Yamamoto does not withdraw his hand like a sane person would. His hand is warm and dry. "Gokudera Hayato," he grunts around his cigarette.
"It's nice to meet you, Gokudera!" Yamamoto chirps. "I didn't think I'd meet anyone who could speak Japanese, ah, way out here. Haha, where I am?"
"Smack dab in the middle of fucking nowhere," Hayato replies. He eyes the length of Yamamoto's body against the motorcycle and the small pack strapped to the back. "You're lost."
"Yeah," Yamamoto says sheepishly and scratches the back of his neck absently. "Can you tell me where the nearest hotel is?"
Hayato takes a final drag of his cigarette before throwing it onto the ground. "About 100 kilometers east of here," he lies easily, though he doesn't know why. Maybe it's because Yamamoto is the first person he's seen besides his sister since the funeral, and the loneliness is suddenly crushing. "My house is just over there. You can spend the night, if you don't want to drive."
"Ah, that would be great!" Yamamoto replies. "Grazie molto."
Hayato just lights another cigarette.
21: coffee
He never gave thought to what Gokudera's mouth would taste like when he kissed him, but when he slips his tongue past the greedy seam of Gokudera's lips, he's surprised by how bitter and rich the taste of espresso is.
22: this is the first day of my life
Takeshi is one of those boys who pays little attention to anything besides his sport of choice. He's perceptive and friendly and intelligent, but beyond the moment, all that fills his brain is batting averages and game strategies.
Until one day, an foreign exchange student named Gokudera Hayato arrives in his classroom. Maybe it's because he looks so different than the dark-haired, dark-eyed people Takeshi has known his whole life, maybe it's because he looks like a delinquent with his light hair, heavy rings, and many necklaces, or maybe it's because there's a strength and resolution in his thin shoulders that Takeshi only ever sees in the mirror, but Takeshi can't take his eyes off the new student.
What follows is a blur. There are bombs and guns and illusions and rings and Dying Will and a maybe-future. It's all so new, some of it fun and some of it terrifying, but Takeshi can always pinpoint the moment it began: he looked up as the door to classroom 1-B slid open, and the sun glint off silver hair and silver rings, like it would glint off a pistol, a sword, or a box weapon.
Before, there was never any room in Takeshi's brain for anything other than baseball. Now, there's only room for baseball and a boy named Gokudera Hayato.
23: recovery
It's witching hour and ghosts walk across the wet cobblestones like he walked across the cobblestones, careful in step and unable to stop the faint echo of his heels. The smoke from his dying cigarette curls up to the awning, breaking into millions upon millions of poisonous molecules—not, the ghost laughs, unlike me.
"You're not real," he tells the phantasm. "Leave me the fuck alone already."
The ghost tilts his head, his smile translucent but still impossible to see through. I won't, the ghost replies, in a voice that is like the scatter of dead leaves along pavement, or perhaps the faint crackle of burning tobacco. I can't. Not until—
He waits for the condition—he knows there is a condition, in the way the ghost's words hang final, as though from a noose—but the ghost remains as silent as his grave. Instead, the ghost reaches for him with fingers as strong and thick as mist, alighting cool, damp, and faint on the sharp angle of his jaw, where the gunmetal stubble would prickle his fingertips if the ghost could feel.
Hayato, the ghost says. Please Hayato, you have to—
"I don't have to do fucking anything," he snaps, screams. His hand passes through the inconsistency of the ghost's extended arm. "You're the one who—"
Hayato, the ghost repeats, every sussuration infused with grief and ache. I'm dead.
"Don't you think I fucking know that? Shit, don't you think that I didn't, that I don't—" Hayato cuts off abruptly, voice rough, and presses his thumbnails into the inner corners of his eyes. "—fuck, Takeshi, I need you—"
But when he looks back up, the ghost has dissipated like the smoke from his cigarette and left Hayato, again.
end.