Gokudera has been getting more and more tense for the last hour.
Yamamoto has no idea why. Usually it's easy to put the pieces of a reason together, to see the shadows of insomnia under Gokudera's eyes or feel the hum of irritation from trying to converse with someone he dislikes to explain an increase in his usual low-level anxiety. But it's only the two of them, too late at night for the usual ambient noise from the street outside Gokudera's house to be a distraction, and usually Yamamoto staying over is enough to ease away Gokudera's usual strain until he can relax, even if he doesn't make it to the sleep that so often eludes him. Usually this is when he's at his calmest, when the tension that collects in him during the day fades away and he goes warm and pliant around Yamamoto's head in his lap.
Not so, tonight. Gokudera has an arm around Yamamoto's waist and a book open in his other hand, held at an angle so Yamamoto can idly read paragraphs between the faster pace of the other's reading, but he's been collecting strain instead of losing it, his shoulders hunching in until even Yamamoto is hard-pressed to find a comfortable angle for his head to rest against Gokudera's shoulder. He's reading slower too, his attention so scattered Yamamoto can read both pages well before Gokudera remembers to turn to the next, until Yamamoto suspects he has a better grasp of the plot than Gokudera.
He's not in a hurry. Whatever Gokudera is stressing about will become clear eventually, and generally asking is a quick way to make things worse rather than better. Besides, it's late enough that Yamamoto is drowsing even with the distraction of the book, his eyelids going heavy with oncoming sleep and his body relaxing until he's draped into comfort around even the tension in Gokudera's shoulders. He's drifting, caught in the leading edge of a dream, when Gokudera clears his throat and finally speaks without any more prelude than that.
"You know I love you, right?"
Yamamoto blinks, framing the words into meaning in his sleepy mind as he looks up at Gokudera's face. The other isn't looking at him - he's still staring at the pages of the book, his gaze as intense as if he's fighting the words to gain their meaning - but his skin is flushing crimson, color bleeding out from the lines of his cheekbones to paint his entire face glowing red. He blinks hard, the motion so sharp Yamamoto thinks for a moment Gokudera is about to look at him, but he doesn't turn his head, just continues to darken into deeper and deeper self-consciousness until Yamamoto laughs a bright bubble of delight.
"Of course I know," he says, turning in to fit his forehead against Gokudera's shoulder. Some of the tension in the other's spine gives way, like ice melting under rain, and Yamamoto hums wordless comfort, presses in closer so he can kiss along the loose neckline of Gokudera's shirt against his shoulder. "I love you too, Hayato."
"Fuck," Gokudera blurts, his voice cracking; he shuts the book without marking their place, brings it up to tap against Yamamoto's head in the shape of a hit without the force for it. "I know, you never stop saying it."
"I like telling you," Yamamoto says, slides in closer so he can line Gokudera's shoulder with kisses up to the curve of his neck. "Cause it's true."
"Shut up," Gokudera says, but it sounds like a laugh and he's tipping his head to the side, letting Yamamoto work his way up the side of his throat and to the sharp edge of his jawline. His breath catches as Yamamoto brushes a kiss at the corner of his mouth, his inhale sticking before he turns in to offer his mouth. Yamamoto smiles and takes the suggestion, fitting his lips in against the familiar soft of Gokudera's and lingering for a moment as the other's shoulders relax against the head of the bed.
"Is that what you were worried about?" Yamamoto asks when he draws back, just enough to see the flutter of pleasure in Gokudera's eyelashes and still close enough to feel the warmth of the other's breath against his skin. "That I didn't know you loved me?"
Gokudera's blush is even more remarkable up-close. His forehead creases, his eyes fixing the other with a glare of self-consciousness, and he goes just as scarlet as before as he growls, "I wasn't worried" as the last of the fretful concern eases him into a slouch. "I just thought maybe you weren't sure." He clears his throat, his gaze sliding away to avoid the sustained contact of the other's gaze. "Since I don't say it all the time like you do."
Yamamoto laughs, feeling affection swelling against his chest like there's not enough space inside his skin for everything he wants to feel. "You don't have to say it out loud for me to know," he says, leaning in to press a kiss to Gokudera's flushed cheek. The arm looped around his waist slides up, fingers drifting until they make contact with the bottom of his shirt and hitch it up enough to find skin. Gokudera's eyes are shut when Yamamoto glances at him again, the line along his forehead gone and his lips parted into softness even before he blinks and turns his head in pursuit of another kiss.
Yamamoto doesn't need to hear the words to know they're true, not when they're written in the movement of Gokudera's fingertips across his skin and printed into the unconscious curve of the other's smile.