Most people describe Hayato Gokudera as hotheaded, pushy, and rude. Takeshi Yamamoto, however, prefers words like excitable, decisive, and honest because he just can't see anything negative in the silveret. It's very rare for words with detrimental connotations to cross Yamamoto's mind at all, really. So once, just this once, it's alright if he admits that there are some things he doesn't like, isn't it? He decides to test it one winter afternoon when he comes in from a walk to find his lover pouring over the local newspaper at the kitchen table, cigarette hanging loosely between his teeth.
"Hey," Yamamoto calls nonchalantly as he peels off a layer of his outerwear and loosens the scarf around his neck a little.
Gokudera's eyes flick up from his paper quickly to survey the man before him and he grunts his greeting. He only manages to read two or three more sentences before his brow furrows and he assumes his default disgruntled expression. "Do you need something?" he asks irritably as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and crosses his legs under the table.
Yamamoto flushes shamefully, unable to deny that he'd been caught awkwardly staring at his companion, mouth agape with unsaid words itching to escape. He contemplates just saying it, getting everything off his chest, but decides against it at the last second with a soft shake of his head. He does his best to don his usual carefree expression and finally says, "I was just thinking about the baseball game that was on last night. I missed the final score and was wondering if it's in the paper."
"Right." Gokudera mumbles, not at all attempting to hide his skepticism. "Well, I'm a little busy reading it so..." he trails off.
Yamamoto clears his throat and shifts in place. "Yeah..."
Curious as his behavior is, it only manages to serve as a catalyst for Gokudera's irritation and he snaps, "Get lost, baseball idiot!" A chuckle and the sound of soft, fading footsteps on the carpet answers him and when he hears the distinctive whump of a body hitting their sunken in couch he takes a long, frustrated drag of his cigarette. "Idiot never reads the damn paper. Tch."
Hours later, when Gokudera has stormed off to bed complaining of a migraine from having to hear the TV blasting all evening, Yamamoto finds himself wandering into the kitchen in search of a snack. It's not that he's really hungry; he just needs something "to take the edge off" of his anxiety and nicotine can't do for him what it does for certain other people.
And then, on his way to pillage the pantry, he sees it. It takes him a moment to register it all even though it's covering everything. He doesn't even know what it is and his stomach is already lurching. Red and with lumps in it, the idea of guessing the consistency it out of the question. The grimace on his face is wide and pitiful when he thinks that maybe it's not all that bad. He ought to just smell it and make an educated guess as to what it could be. But then, he wonders, what if it's one of those things that's so pungent that even just a whiff will have him reeling back and trying to get the ghost of an unspeakable taste out of his mouth?
"Oh," a voice drawls lazily from the left.
It makes Yamamoto jump and it makes the bile he's been forcing down his esophagus come back up an inch or two and burn his throat.
"You look like you've seen a ghost or something," Gokudera notes from his position in the doorway. His hair is disheveled and boxers are the only thing protecting him from the draft in their apartment. Normally, Yamamoto's eyes would be swimming all over his form, but he can only manage to look at the ground. This doesn't go unnoticed by Gokudera, of course, though he chooses not to say anything regarding it. Instead he just snorts, "Sorry I scared the piss out of you." He brushes passed an oddly silent Yamamoto and grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge before pausing and pressing it against the other's exposed arm to watch him wince from the sensation. "Looks like you need this more than I do, huh?" He doesn't wait for a response and instead starts heading back out of the room the way he came in. "There's left over pasta in the fridge, by the way. Had a craving for Italy earlier." He still hasn't had a response by the time he's in the doorway so he leaves the mute man with, "I'm saying you can have some, in case you didn't get the hint. Not that you need any, fatty."
Yamamoto glances back over to the horrendous sight and swallows as he puts the pieces together, calling out feeble thanks to Gokudera's retreating back. It has to be tomato sauce, he reasons. But still, it's an awful thing to see. He shakes his head and exits the kitchen, rubbing his stomach sympathetically in hopes of either postponing its need of new food or quelling the wave of nausea that threatens to overpower it.
Weeks later Yamamoto arrives home in the middle of the night, just barely managing to close the door behind him as he catches himself from falling flat on his face. His last mission had been more time consuming than he'd anticipated, what with Squalo making an unceremonious appearance. He'd burst into the scene right as Yamamoto drew his sword and instead of helping subdue the target, he gave Yamamoto hell and some new cuts and bruises to match the scar on his chin.
Gokudera is in plain sight, hunched over a book at the kitchen table as usual. He removes his glasses and stretches, but remains seated. The softness of his voice betrays the nonchalant demeanor he regularly wears. "Did Squalo tear you a new one? You look like hell."
Yamamoto sighs and trudges into the kitchen and sits across from Gokudera as he gracelessly loosens his tie. "I went through hell. The normal sideline heckling is a pain, but at least I can tune that out. You can't tune out a sword coming at you that's attached to a crazy shark-man."
"And here I thought you were in love with that 'crazy shark-man'," mocks Gokudera. "You kiss his ass every time you see him."
"Not any more than I kiss yours," Yamamoto replies in a sing-song voice, always game to smother the bomber with affection.
While it's something he's used to, Gokudera still does not openly welcome it. He's unable to hide the flushing of his cheeks and leans across the table to smack the swordsman on the side of his head roughly. "Maybe I ought to follow his example and rip you a new one myself!"
It only makes Yamamoto laugh and he halfheartedly bats the other's hand away. The assault is ongoing though, so he takes further action and leans back, turning his head to the side as if the new angle will put further distance between them.
The regret of his actions comes instantly. The thing he sees—it's the worst yet, piled high and coated in...something. It's too much: the sight and the general shittiness of his condition. Yamamoto knows he can't skirt around the issue any longer.
The word vomit comes out quickly, not allowing him even a breath of oxygen in the middle of it all. "I have been trying to ignore this for months now, but I just can't anymore. Do you see that over there? That is absolutely disgusting!" He gestures to his right, where the sink is filled passed what should be maximum capacity with dirty cook and dining ware. "Would it kill you to wash the dishes just once? I can't do it every single time! I mean, when it's food you made yourself in there, it's not so bad, but when you come home and there's just...just shit staring at you, it's gross! I am a very patient man, Hayato, but damn it, it is three o'clock in the morning, I'm fairly certain that one of my ribs is broken, and there is mystery waste in my sink that makes me want to burn the entire kitchen just so I can be sure it's gone without ever knowing what it is!"
There's a pregnant silence and Gokudera only stares at Yamamoto, mouth agape. He'd known that the baseball idiot was hiding something since he'd had a long history of bottling things up, but he was not expecting this. He had figured perhaps there were issues along the lines of an affair or perhaps he was just going to admit that he'd been the one to spill juice on their sofa a few weeks ago because there was no way he could blame Uri forever.
"You want me to wash dishes?" Gokudera asks incredulously when his mind finally grasps the message of the man's rant. You've been creeping around the apartment and staring at me like a retard because you were bothered by the dishes in the sink? You had me thinking we were headed for a crisis or something!" He throws his hands up in disbelief. "That's just broth in that pot over there, you know!" Yamamoto opens his mouth to speak, probably about how there are multiple pots in said sink, but Gokudera cuts him off. "I didn't think your ridiculousness spread passed your baseball obsession, but you, sir, are truly a pussy."
With that, the Storm Guardian rises and heads to their bedroom, making a point to slam the door behind him. Yamamoto just stays where he is, dumbfounded. How did that get turned back to him? That is not how this was supposed to work. This was supposed to end in the Italian's apology and perhaps some makeup sex. Yamamoto puts his head in his hands and scratches an itch on his scalp that isn't there, willing himself not to look at the mountain of filth only a few feet away from him.
In the coming weeks, the issue is still not fixed and Gokudera refuses to budge from his position, insisting that the Rain Guardian needs to "grow a pair". So Yamamoto retaliates in the best possible way he can think of.
"Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?" the cashier asks, feigned enthusiasm covering his words like his life depends on it.
"Cash," Yamamoto declares, putting a wad of bills in the boy's hand. "Keep the change," he adds.
"Thank you and have a nice day!" the clerk chimes automatically, ushering the next customer forward.
Yamamoto smiles and wishes him the same, picking up his bags. There are only five or six and it's not difficult to handle, but he can't help but feel absurd, what with all of them filled with instant foods. With adulthood came culinary skills that extended passed the ability to make sushi and the the necessity of microwavable meals diminished. They've become sort of like a poison to most of the guardians now that the group of them have grown accustomed to the hearty meals served at the many dinners and ceremonies the Vongola are so often required to attend.
Surely, Gokudera will throw a fit when he finds that their monthly grocery stipend has been spent and their freezer and cupboards are filled with things that he regretfully ate throughout his university years. But if it means winning this "Chore Feud", as Squalo called it when he mocked the swordsman's manliness from the sidelines of battles, then Yamamoto is more than happy to put up with the onslaught of insults and dynamite that are sure to come when he arrives home.
A/N: This was a secret santa gift for a 8059 club that I'm on over at DeviantArt. I was given the prompt "tyl!8059 - cleaning: Gokudera never washes the dishes." It was an absolute pleasure writing this, so I hope you enjoyed reading!
Please review and thank you for reading!