WinterDust: Decided to finish this fic that was rolling around in my documents folder. Enjoy
.
.
Before everything, Yamamoto is wide awake.
The slither of blankets, a rush of cool air. The bite of icy feet and hard metal that trails from stomach to chest – makes him clench with anticipation and stirs the heat in his groins.
A kiss on the neck, the harsh scrape of teeth. He smells of snow-laden winds and liquid courage – something to keep him warm.
Bites and sucks with intent to hurt. Drags that sleep-heavy moan from him, scratchy and rough like the stubble they shave off every morning, standing side-by-side in the bathroom mirror. Incoherent noises give way to a single name, the first breath of air to him who is drowning in the current that is:
"R-Rebor—" Shush. His temple aches from the hard nudge of the barrel that turns his face away from the intruder, cheek sinking deeper into his pillow. The other looms over him, eyes gleaming in the moonless night.
Lean and dark against the colorless gradient of his room, Reborn presses closer, and the wet locks of his hair nip at Yamamoto's skin, freed from the usual confines of his trademark fedora. His suit is dry, protected so far by the coat lying discarded at the foot of the bed. Yamamoto hears the rustle of the shirt and imagines it peeling away to reveal smooth, broad shoulders. His breath catches when he feels-
-Heat: the mouth of the gun now tracing the waistline of his pants, the slow and steady breath at the back of his neck, and his own tongue, darting out to wet his lips.
Yamamoto feels him through the expensive fabric, pressing against his hip. The Italian rolls his hips once, twice, against him in that lazy way of his before breaking the silence so smooth and low, disguised between sheets and the hardness of Reborn's body.
You should know better than to sleep with the windows unlocked. His voice is but a murmur, twisting deep and slow in Yamamoto's gut. Disapproving words disguising pride because his eyes don't miss the curve of a blade slipped beneath the covers. I thought I taught you better than that.
Yamamoto groans and thinks the affirmative; it's impossible to forget the hours they've spent training together, blood and sweat bridging the large gap between mentor and protégé, washed away in the shower along with the opaque white sliding down his legs, Reborn licking slow circles between his shoulders. He turns his head and torso to catch Reborn's gaze with bright eyes and furrowed brows, and instead finds himself devoured by cold lips that pry him wide open, tongue delving deep and hard to turn him inside out.
Gone is his breath and Yamamoto clings; long, calloused fingers forcing deep trenches into the lapels of his mentor's shirt as he's drawn upwards into a swell of everything – breath, heat, relief, need, lov—and all Yamamoto can do is drink his lover deep until they skirt the edges of death with dizzying relish.
And when they break apart, noses inches away and Yamamoto a tangled mess of blanket and limbs haphazardly pulled atop Reborn's thighs, all the Italian says is, "I'm back," as if he'd only been gone a few hours at the most. The hand that cups the side of his protégé's face, thumb stroking just beneath the corner of Yamamoto's eye in a rare show of intimacy, tells otherwise.
And Yamamoto's reply, a kiss to the palm of his hand, the slow release of tension in his shoulders, and the inconspicuous shudder in his simple, "Okay," has the weight of the world behind it. Of months of searching, waiting, despairing, hoping, and longing that began when Gokudera walked into his dojo, scowl deep and smoking his first cigarette in years.
…
"Reborn's missing." His gaze is steady and terrifyingly lucid compared to Yamamoto's, eyes reflecting the slow absorption of Gokudera's announcement. The grip on the handle of his blade tightens, knuckles whitening as he tries to anchor himself against the maelstrom of emotions beginning to bubble in his gut and his throat when he asks:
"How long?" Because Reborn came and went as he pleased, and the details regarding his whereabouts were never shared, never asked for.
"…it's almost been a month since he last checked in." A month is too long. "We've been trying to locate him for the past two weeks."
Yamamoto almost loses himself coming to terms with Gokudera's betrayal, "Why didn't you…", bites his tongue as he takes in Gokudera's cigarette, the slump of his shoulders, the shadow beneath the steady, lucid gaze.
Stands in silence as his world begins to crumble over the course of three months-
…
-and piece back together when Yamamoto manages to say, "You're a bastard," before Reborn grips Yamamoto's shirt with leather-covered fingers and tears it off of his lover's body. All in one, smooth motion.
Baseball-shaped buttons fly and bounce, peppering the wooden floor with sharp staccatos as Yamamoto mourns the loss of his birthday present from Tsuna until Reborn preemptively silences his protégé with another kiss, working on shedding his pants as eager hands pull him onto the bed, onto his young lover.
The clothes come off. Legs wrap around him. He spits into his hand –pushes –moans –buries his face into the base of Yamamoto's neck as Yamamoto writhes and tightens and says his name with ragged breaths.
Curls his arms around Yamamoto, digs in with his fingers. Feels the deep pressure of Yamamoto's grip on his shoulders, of his heel on his lower back. The moans vibrating in his chest. The sweat, slick and glossy.
Reborn's tongue and lips mouthing the words in his mind against Yamamoto's skin, throat rendered silent by the grip of his pride, "Yamamoto, I've mis-"
"-sed you so much, Reborn," Yamamoto groaning, softly, into his ear.
And then Reborn knows he is home.
.
.
WinterDust: Thanks for reading :)