Gokudera is beginning to regret his tutoring offer.
It seemed like a good idea initially, for reasons he is now struggling to call up. There was some thought of getting sushi for dinner, and actually forcing some useful information into Yamamoto's head, and maybe some half-formed idea of showing off his own knowledge. But after they had dinner Yamamoto proved impossible to teach, and with how close he is now Gokudera can't even pay attention himself to what he's doing.
"Get off me," he growls for the third time in five minutes, though he doesn't push Yamamoto away. The other boy isn't even looking at the table; his entire body is turned in towards Gokudera, one leg stretched behind the other boy's back and his arm looping around Gokudera's shoulders.
"Aww," and Gokudera can't turn, can't even glance at Yamamoto's face, because he knows there's going to be a smile there, the bright one that sparkles into hazel eyes until any thought of resistance evaporates from Gokudera's head. "It's been hours, Gokudera, can't we take a break?"
"You have been taking a break," Gokudera shoots back. Yamamoto laughs agreement, ducks his head in like he's thinking about kissing Gokudera's hair or the edge of his neck. His chin digs in against the other boy's shoulder, warm and heavy even through Gokudera's shirt and jacket, and Gokudera's hand goes still against the paper. He still doesn't look at Yamamoto.
"You're the one who needs to study," he points out, clinging to irritation as the best and only defense for the heat of Yamamoto's breathing against his skin and the press of Yamamoto's leg against his back. "I'm doing this to help you and you're ignoring me."
"Just for a few minutes," Yamamoto pleads. "I've been paying attention, just five minutes of break."
"You haven't learned anything," Gokudera protests. Yamamoto tucks his head in against his shoulder, whimpers a tiny plea against his shirt. His other arm curls in around Gokudera's waist, tugs at a handful of his shirt to urge him to turn. Gokudera reaches for his wrist with every intention of pushing him off - and his fingers run up against skin, his focus starts to disintegrate like sand under waves.
"We can't," he says before he realizes the implication of the words. "You can't, you need to study, Yamamoto."
"But you can," Yamamoto suggests, and Gokudera laughs before he can call back the amusement at this spectacular misinterpretation.
"Of course I can," he declares, setting his pencil down against the paper. "I can do whatever I want to you."
Yamamoto hums imploringly at Gokudera's shoulder, and Gokudera is turning in before he can think himself into hesitancy. Yamamoto ducks when the other swings his arm up, fits himself against the crook of Gokudera's elbow like he knew the motion was coming, and he's shifting his hold, sliding his fingers against Gokudera's waist to steady him as the other boy angles his knee between them so he can get his legs around Yamamoto's hips.
"You're supposed to study," Gokudera says again, but he's not thinking about the words; he's distracted by the heavy slowness in Yamamoto's blink, the way the other's gaze drops to his mouth and his lips part in unconscious request. He's certain Yamamoto's not listening anymore; he looks like he's melting, like he's falling into a haze before Gokudera has really properly touched him. He keeps talking anyway, distracts himself with the scrape of feigned frustration in his throat from how soft Yamamoto's hair is under his fingers, how pliant Yamamoto goes at the push of Gokudera's hands against his scalp. "If you're too much of an idiot to pay attention, that's not my problem."
"No," Yamamoto agrees dreamily. He slides his arm off Gokudera's shoulders so he can curl his fingers in against the other boy's waist to match his other hand. Gokudera feathers his fingers through dark hair and Yamamoto tips forward, presses his face against the other boy's shirt and breathes in like he's trying to inhale Gokudera into his lungs instead of air.
"I tried," Gokudera says, his breath catching as Yamamoto's fingers rumple the hem of his shirt so warm skin can press against the curve of his spine. "There's no helping you." Yamamoto makes a tiny noise of agreement, draws Gokudera in closer by his hold on the other boy's back. Gokudera can't push back the smile that breaks over his face, the huffed laugh that shudders through his chest.
"Baseball idiot," he says, focusing on the insult in the words and not the tender affection of the tone so he doesn't have to acknowledge how much like an endearment it sounds. Yamamoto hums laughter into his shirt, presses in closer for another moment while Gokudera slides his fingers through the other's hair, forms careful fists at the back of Yamamoto's head. When he tugs Yamamoto tips his chin up without protest, blinks up at Gokudera with a smile so warm and so soft that any thought of studying or argument or resistance evaporates right out of Gokudera's mind. He dips his head to kiss the soft of that expression, and Yamamoto's lips fit against his and the other boy's mouth opens for him, and even when Gokudera's hands go gentle instead of tugging Yamamoto makes no move to pull away.
It's a failure, as far as tutoring goes, but in the end Gokudera doesn't have any regrets about the evening at all.