Title: Show Me How to Break
Pairing: 5980
Warnings: slash
Summary: Despite his own insistence to ignore the subtle signs—and the blatant signs—the beat of his own heart can only be refuted for so long before it eventually explodes.
AN: This is an old work originally posted on LJ
An epiphany can be a sudden, smack-you-in-the-face realization, a slow, gradual gain of understanding, or perhaps a strange mixture of the two. Whichever the case, once the epiphany is reached, a definite amount of control is lost in the ability to choose what to believe. Of this, Gokudera is now certain, for despite his own insistence to ignore the subtle signs—and the blatant signs—the beat of his own heart can only be refuted for so long before it altogether disappears.
Gokudera has been plodding around in this god-forsaken, green, shrubby hell for hours, and he is not the least bit happy about it. The twilight sky is a swirling dismal violet, foretelling imminent discomfort in the form of soggy wet and chill winds. Tsuna, along with the rest of the Family, is nowhere in sight, or sound, and he is beginning to suspect Reborn of sending him on a wild goose chase.
Seconds away from grumbling to himself and just blasting his way through the whole frustrating obstruction—public property and looming prosecution be damned—when he hears something other than the smoothly escalating storm above him: the soft swish of fabric and the quiet tup of shoe on hard-packed earth. Even though the thick bushes are more than tall enough to prevent anyone from seeing over them, Gokudera ducks near the corner and waits, dynamite poised and ready between slim fingers.
A tall form ambles around the hedge and into Gokudera's passageway. A moment too late, he realizes who it is, but his lit stick of combustible doom is already hurtling towards the unsuspecting individual. He opens his mouth to shout a warning, knowing he'll never make it in time, and the explosion blows heat, smoke, and bits of hedge that he blocks with his forearms. Grey-green eyes wide, Gokudera jumps up to investigate the wreckage.
And finds Yamamoto gracefully rising from a feline crouch and brushing dirt from his jeans with an easy smile.
"Yo," he lifts a hand in a brief stationary wave.
"What are you doing here?" Gokudera questions to cover his foolishness. There is no way he was that concerned about blowing the idiot up.
"The kid asked me to come by."
Gokudera's brows crease in confused suspicion. "Reborn-san? Me too, but he said the Tenth would be here. I've yet to find anyone but you."
"Yeah, I pretty much gave up looking after a while and tried to find my way out. Funny thing is, no matter where I go, I just keep ending up going in circles." He shakes his head, seemingly baffled, but with that silly smile firmly in place. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have your cell on you, would you?"
"Of course I do, idiot. Why?" Gokudera crosses his arms and shifts his glance to anywhere but on Yamamoto.
"Well, I'd like to call and find out what happened with the others, or maybe just get someone to help find us, but I can't get a signal in here." Flips out his phone and flashes it at Gokudera to emphasize his point. Sure enough, no signal.
"Hmph. No problem, I'll call—not that I'm lost, like some useless idiot I know—" He stops mid-insult, glaring at his screen in disbelief.
Yamamoto leans over to see what put such an expression on his friend's face, and sees that he is also out of luck—and bars.
Gokudera would snap something condescending, or perhaps blame his shoddy reception on Yamamoto's contagious uselessness, but it is then that he notices how close their faces are. Centimeters.
Turning an interesting shade of red, visible even in the darkness of a cloud-smothered sky, Gokudera freezes and tries not to stammer like an idiot.
"So, as you can see, we'll just have to find our own way out," he supplies helpfully.
It's cute, Yamamoto decides, the way Gokudera has begun to always flush and turn to stone when he gets too close. Four years ago, Gokudera had no trouble with getting in his face, but recently he is hard-pressed to come within a foot and half of his personal space for any reason. Likewise, if Yamamoto passes the line, Gokudera reacts this way. Not that he understands it, really; it's just amusing. Very amusing. But lately he's been thinking…
"Then let's find the exit, shall we?" He offers a bright grin and starts off in a random direction that isn't the way he came from.
Gokudera unfreezes, drooping where he stands and taking a few slow breaths to calm his racing heart. Damn Yamamoto for having this effect on him and damn him again for confusing him by having this effect on him!
After a quiet moment of contemplation and more vehement damnation, he follows the cheerful fruitcake he has somehow come to respect, maybe even admire, ever since their adventure into the future. His thoughts turn to the duel over the Rain Ring. The night he realized he appreciates the swift, fluid movements and determined expression Yamamoto affects when fighting a serious battle. Subtle hints of a wealth of power and a blatant efficiency of motion, flashing as sleek and fierce as his burning eyes. Not to mention his performance with his Dying Will Flame. Enraptured with the mental image of a graceful blue swallow, Gokudera forgets to watch his own steps.
Colliding into Yamamoto is jarring for several reasons, only one of which he acknowledges; the one that has him almost falling onto his ass. Luckily, Yamamoto's quick reflexes apply to falling Gokudera's as well as dodging wayward bombs. Large, warm hands encircle his forearms and pull him vertical, silver hair swishing past his cheeks and falling into his eyes. He mutters what could be either an appreciative or condescending remark, breaking contact as quickly as possible, and runs his fingers through his bangs to clear his vision.
If Gokudera's lack of eye contact is bothering Yamamoto, he doesn't voice any complaints. He merely smiles and continues on, choosing a random turn out of the crossroad before them.
On and on they walk, trying the right-hand rule until their arms get tired of the position. Gokudera bumps into him a couple more times, due to a distinct lack of lighting and Yamamoto's tendency to pause at 3- or 4-way forks.
At one point, Gokudera growls and stomps ahead to take the lead, but that only leads to Yamamoto being the one to run into him when he pauses. A lingering hand warms his shoulder, makes him shiver, and he stubbornly blames it on the gradually decreasing temperature.
Light rain sprinkles with icy cool foreshadowing, and Gokudera's fists clench. Now, not only can he not smoke, but his nose, fingers, and toes are already going numb, and if he ends up getting a cold from this, he is seriously blowing some morons to bits. Furthermore, any extended period of time spent with the baseball idiot puts him on edge, even if he is being oddly quiet and unobtrusive.
Something about this whole situation is just unreasonably frustrating. Add that to the recent onset of a slow-but-sure change in their relationship and the way Gokudera thinks of Yamamoto…he might just have a mental implosion. Much more of this and he won't be able to restrain himself any longer.
Suddenly, three things happen that make Gokudera snap. A fat droplet splats right on his nose and splashes into his eyes as the sky begins to release a horrendous torrent, a frigid gust blows what little warmth he'd managed to keep right out of him, and Yamamoto makes a startled sound and bumps into him yet again.
"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" he yells at the world in general. He breaks into a run, not stopping until his body is good and warm, even if his lungs are burning from the frozen air. Doesn't care that he's lost Yamamoto and will probably not find him again. Doesn't care that he could very well freeze to death out here with no other source of emergency heat. Doesn't care that he's doomed Yamamoto to the same fate.
All he cares about is the anger coursing through him and the mild satisfaction his tirade has granted him. He slumps into the thickening mud and just sits there, staring at his feet and trying to reason it all out.
When did this become more than just trying to find a way out of this stupid maze? Why does he need to be irritated every time he's near Yamamoto? Who else makes him feel so…
And as he concentrates on the particular burn of his blood, the odd tingling of the skin that has felt Yamamoto's warmth, the hyper-awareness concentrated on everything the freak does, it hits him without admonition or remorse.
Yamamoto makes him feel alive.
Yamamoto doesn't like to think. He likes living, going on instincts and intuition, not plans and discretion. But he has always admired Gokudera for his intellect and resolve. Even if tenacity and a quick temper sometimes outweigh common sense and get him into trouble. It just goes to show that Gokudera is human, too. That for all his acrobatic grace, inherent precision, and tactical brilliance, there is an average guy with average human flaws. Rough edges on a precious gem.
And that makes him all the more…magnetic? No, that's not it.
Whatever it is, it's something that has Yamamoto running after him, following footprints in the softening earth at an easy jog. He doesn't want to crowd Gokudera, but he doesn't want to leave him enough time to really start to sulk, either.
He rounds the corner and sees him, slouched in the mud, face downturned and hair covering his expression. Yamamoto doesn't know what set him off, but he'll be damned if he's going to let him be depressed over something trivial.
"Gokudera…sorry if I…I didn't mean to—"
"Just shut up." Gokudera mutters, pulling his legs up and holding his knees to his chest. The mud squelches comically but Yamamoto doesn't laugh. He doesn't do anything but stare.
Gokudera might very well have stayed right there until morning, but the storm chooses that moment to begin pelting beads of frozen pain down onto them.
He hears Yamamoto gasp before the sound of falling ice rises to an obnoxious volume. Gokudera grits his teeth and welcomes the bruising chips. Maybe a little hurt will override the tumult within.
"…dera…" He thinks he hears his name but he doesn't care. A moment later, his wrist is caught in a solid grasp that pulls him up and against Yamamoto as the latter tries to half-carry Gokudera somewhere.
Without thinking, he pushes him away and stands on his own.
"What the hell—!"
"I saw a gazebo on the way over here!" Yamamoto shouts over the white noise. He points and reaches for Gokudera's wrist again, this time not letting go when he yanks back. Instead, he holds fast and runs, dragging a sure-to-be-enraged Gokudera behind him.
A few moments later, they stand under the shelter of a spacious gazebo and Yamamoto releases Gokudera's braceleted wrist. He braces for an attack, verbal or physical, but neither is forthcoming. Gokudera just stands where Yamamoto let him go, shivering and panting small puffs of fog, his eyes still hidden behind his frosty hair.
Yamamoto watches him warily for a moment, then sits near the center of the wooden floor and huddles to conserve warmth. Gokudera stands motionless until Yamamoto's soft voice calls out once again.
"Aren't you cold? If we sit close, we can share body heat to stay warm." It is not a suggestion, a mere statement of fact. No offense to be taken on Gokudera's part. He doesn't know how to respond.
Yamamoto notes Gokudera's shudders becoming more violent and is seconds away from trying something rash.
Gokudera gives then and closes the distance to plunk down beside him, not quite touching, but much closer than he has ever voluntarily been to him. Yamamoto's heat radiates through his thin jacket and Gokudera's hoodie, spreading over his side and calmly licking like the blue flames he wields. He sighs.
They sit and stare out at nothing. Try not to let their skin tingle where they can almost feel the other's. Try not to wish they could just speak their minds. Luckily one of them is the type to take these kinds of chances.
"What are you thinking about?" Yamamoto fully expects to hear, None of your damned business, dumbass. Expects Gokudera to get annoyed and move away, but he figured he'd try anyway.
"I'm thinking I don't hate you anymore, and that pisses me off."
His eyes go wide, mouth parting as he jerks his head around to gape at Gokudera. Did he hear him right?
"I'm thinking that even though Tenth isn't here and it's wet and cold and stupid, I don't hate it. I don't hate just being here, with you." He raises his gaze to bore into Yamamoto like a shot through the heart. "I'm thinking that I don't hate being this close to you."
The last is uttered through clenched teeth and Gokudera keeps his stare firm. Yamamoto is suddenly afraid to move. The slightest motion could break this moment, erase it even, and that would be unforgivable.
Gokudera closes his eyes and sighs again, falling backwards to lie on cool wood. He pulls a cellophane-wrapped package of cigarettes out and lights one up. His eyes blaze emerald with the smooth flame of his lighter, then spark dull and glossy in the end's orange glow.
Yamamoto watches the steady rise and fall of his breathing from the corner of his eye, easily ignoring the smoky scent he's accepted as part of Gokudera's presence.
Gokudera's right beside him, more so than he has ever been. He is warm and natural and right here. Yamamoto knows what he wants, but can he risk it?
There is a darkening bruise where a larger bit of hail hit the sensitive hollow above Gokudera's collar bone. Without much thought at all, Yamamoto is half-leaned over him and brushing a fingertip over it. When he realizes what he's doing, he freezes and returns Gokudera's calm stare for what feels like minutes on end. He doesn't yell at him, hit him, or even ask what he's doing.
Heartened by this apparent permission, Yamamoto follows his impulses and traces along the collar bone, appreciating the feel and the sight of it, the play of shadows and a faint orange tint on pale skin.
All the while Gokudera watches his face. Fingertips along the top of his chest, the V of his red shirt, the base of his neck, the shell of his ear, feathering over his jaw. Finally, his thumb comes to rest on the corner of his mouth and Yamamoto's eyes find his with an indecipherable look behind them that makes Gokudera's stomach flutter.
Yamamoto blinks and begins to pull away, only to be stopped by a cool hand wrapping around his wrist. The other hand flicks the cigarette away and nestles into the hair at the nape of his neck. Gokudera's serious expression asks, What are you going to do now?
Silly question, his grin answers, and he closes the distance to steal a quick kiss. A quick kiss that Gokudera lengthens with the suggestive pressure of his grip on wrist and neck.
His lips are soft, tasting faintly of smoke and rain. Yamamoto can smell his skin, sweetened by the water, and his hair, reminiscent of his shampoo. He tilts his hips and rests on an arm, lying beside and slightly across Gokudera. He feels the smooth grains of wood under the palm he places by his head, fingers resting over the damp strands of hair splayed there. A startling contrast of the warmth from Gokudera against his chest and the bitter cold seeping into his side.
A short gasp. Gokudera couldn't believe how good his mouth felt, but his tongue is…lapping at the corner and slipping over his lower lip, following the curve inward, grazing over his teeth, and teasing his own tongue until he's following Yamamoto's lead and challenging it.
He never wants to stop. There is this searing heat—and Yamamoto smells good, tastes good, feels so good.
"Gokudera," comes a dark whisper. He shivers and finally hears the sounds he's making. Low, guttural sounds and his lungs are working, breaths panting out and making him lightheaded.
Gokudera flushes and silences himself. But Yamamoto immediately misses those sounds, those wonderful sounds that were making him lose control. Slow hands skim chest, collar bone, and neck on the way up to tilt his head to the side, thumb brushing over lower lip as he kisses down his neck. Two kisses down and the sounds are back. He smiles.
He gets to the juncture of neck and shoulder and sucks. A soft moan from Gokudera and he feels the shudder shake through him. Long, pale fingers are clenching his forearms, whether to keep him close or en route to pushing him away, Yamamoto doesn't know. Taking a chance and following some instinctual hint, he grazes his teeth over the spot before biting down, just hard enough to leave a reddening indent of his teeth.
Gokudera gasps and it's like something inside of him snaps. All previous thoughts of ending this absurdity vanish like a tentative flame. He doesn't even realize he's doing it until he's got Yamamoto beneath him, pinning his arms beside his head and looking down into surprised eyes with a predatory gleam in his own. There's no time for second-guessing or feeling foolish because he's growling low in his throat and making a twin of his teeth-mark on Yamamoto, soothing it with a swipe of his tongue.
"Gokudera…" He's never heard Yamamoto's voice waver before, but he decides he really likes it.
He grinds down as he worries an earlobe, following some innate rhythm, a primal song he's never heard before. Yamamoto adds the key notes to the music: the quick counterpoints to his forward motions and the soft vibrations steadily growing in volume.
Yamamoto reaches a hand down and works at both of their belts until Gokudera catches on, leaves the project of mapping his throat to help decrease the barriers between them. Their hands connect and work together, hips moving out of sync but that just makes it better: chaotic and wild.
Head thrown back on a series of soundless groans, Gokudera bites his lip and forgets to breathe. Yamamoto is too fixated on staring and feeling to remind him that oxygen is a necessity. But who needs necessities when you've got all that intensity and want right in front of you, pleading and demanding and so very yes.
A thumb slips over at just the right moment and Yamamoto's head falls back with a hollow thunk and he's choking on his own throat somehow, strange sounds stuttering out but all he can hear is white noise and pleasure.
Seeing that normally idiotic, smiling face contorted in the most open, forbidden display of lust and Gokudera is right there with him, falling forward, open-mouth kisses and desperate little nips that wrench little shocks out of Yamamoto like volts traveling across the skin. It's smooth and rough at the same time, light and color and fade to black, but when he opens his eyes, all he can taste is this bone-deep satiation and he wants to meld onto the body below his, become an irrevocable part of this silly baseball idiot once and for all.
"Gokudera," he breathes. "I think I'm in love with you."
And that's all it really takes.