It takes Gokudera longer than it should to realize how badly hurt Yamamoto is. It's not his fault, he tells himself while shuffling through the contents of a first-aid kit with shaking hands. He has had other things on his mind, concerns and distractions and any number of reasons why he didn't notice the loss of his perpetual shadow, didn't realize none of his statements had the inevitable echo of the other's voice. And that's all true - he is distracted, his head is aching, he is paying attention to his own struggle to stay upright - but the biggest reason, he realizes when he finally looks over to see how still Yamamoto is lying across the stretcher, is that he takes Yamamoto for granted. The other boy's presence has been a certainty since before Gokudera knew to want it and well before he was willing to admit to the flicker of pleasure that hits him every time Yamamoto drops into step alongside him. Yamamoto can take care of himself, he doesn't need protecting, and Gokudera can count on him, has been counting on him for longer than he realized himself, comfortably certain of the support of the other's shoulders at his back when he needs them.
Seeing Yamamoto as he is now - still and deathly pale under his tanned skin but for the dark bruise rising over his cheek - is like missing a step Gokudera has never had to count before, like all his assumptions about gravity have veered sideways. His stomach is still in free-fall when he grabs at one of the first-aid kits, his heart still stuttering panic when he opens it and realizes he has no idea what to do. He's never actually tried to administer anything like real first aid, and from the look of things that is exactly what Yamamoto needs. But everyone else is busy, caught up in their own conversations or in helping the others, and when Gokudera looks down all he can see is his own failures written into the unconscious softness of Yamamoto's mouth.
He doesn't even know what happened. Yamamoto's cheek is scraped raw from the line of his jaw up to his hairline, swelling already turning his skin dark with the shadow of an oncoming bruise. Gokudera brushes out the edges of the scratch with his fingertips but Yamamoto doesn't stir, the dark weight of his lashes against his cheek doesn't shift at all. The very corner of his mouth is torn, too, there's a faint smear of blood against the edge of his lips, and when Gokudera blinks he can see the soft apology in the smile Yamamoto gave him as the metal walls cut in between them.
It's only for a moment, just a breath before he shoves the thought away, but the idea that he might never see that smile again is enough even momentarily to chill all his blood freezing.
His hands really are shaking. He isn't sure he can be trusted even with what he's doing now, carefully wiping the dirt and dried blood clear of Yamamoto's features while trying to tell himself he's not panicking with every faint exhale he can feel against his wrist, trying to keep moving while he waits for the next inhale to come. It's such a small thing, sooner done than thought even with the delay of his unsteady hands, and then he's left at loose ends again, staring down at Yamamoto's unmoving features while his surging guilt builds higher and higher, until it overwhelms even his need to fix this and he has to turn his back and pace away a few feet from the silent accusation in the other's stillness.
Irie's speaking as Gokudera comes forward, cutting off a thread of conversation Gokudera has been ignoring. "Hold on for a second. It's almost time."
"Huh?" It's easier to let aggression flood his words, easier to lash out than it is to keep the frustration directed inward where it belongs. "Time for what?"
The tell-tale explosion from the other hospital bed is more answer than Irie has time for. Gokudera turns automatically, his thoughts identifying and explaining the sound so he's almost unsurprised when Ryohei as-he-was sits up so fast the blankets covering him nearly fall off the bed. "Where the heck am I?"
"That's -" Gokudera starts, but for once it is Tsuna who beats him to the statement, who explains, "Big brother from ten years ago!"
The sound draws Ryohei's attention, pulls him lunging out of bed and to his feet as he leans in hard on the edge of Yamamoto's bed, starts to shout in his characteristic tone without any consideration for the still form under the sheets. "You're alive, Sawada?! I was freaking out when you and Kyoko disappeared!"
He's leaning in too hard, Gokudera can see the bed shifting with his weight and Yamamoto needs to rest, he needs still and quiet to recover and Ryohei is destroying both at one swoop. It's protectiveness that propels Gokudera in, that hisses "Ssh!" past his clenched teeth before he can think through his reaction.
"Oh!" Ryohei turns to Gokudera, acknowledging his presence while utterly ignoring his instruction. "You're here too, octopus head?!"
He's still yelling, he's leaning in farther, and the next breath Gokudera takes feels like it burns through his veins like fire, tightens his fingers into a fist for him. "I'll explain everything later, so keep it down, lawn head." He's watching Ryohei's face - it's easier than glancing at Yamamoto's bruised features - breathing like every inhale is pure adrenaline, like somehow Ryohei's yelling is going to knock over the fragile balance of Yamamoto's breathing.
"What was that, octopus head?!"
Gokudera isn't sure if he's being baited into a fight or if Ryohei is doing this accidentally, stoking the self-loathing hot in his chest so Gokudera wants to lash out at Ryohei, at himself, at anything, just so he can be doing something. He can feel his shoulders edging up around his ears, coherency vanishing off into wordless frustration, and even Tsuna's attempts to soothe them fade off into insignificance under the ringing in Gokudera's ears.
He sees the movement first, just in his periphery. It's a tiny thing, a shift of a hand raising, but in the space between one breath and the next all the fire in him goes cold, still and frozen with anxiety. He has to look, he can't look, can't stand the disappointment if he's wrong, if he's imagining, even when the sheets in front of him shift with the motion of the frame under them.
Then there's a tiny noise, a sigh that Gokudera could recognize from across the room, and Gokudera's heart lets go of the desperate tension even before Yamamoto says, "Sounds like you're having fun."
Tsuna is exclaiming, Ryohei is moving, but Gokudera is turning to stare, isn't listening, isn't seeing anything but Yamamoto's face. He is sitting up, he has one hand lifted to rub at the back of his head, and the bruises and the scratches are still there but his eyes are open, he's blinking and breathing and starting to smile, glancing over Gokudera's shoulder and grinning apologetically as he says, "Yeah, somehow" in answer to a question Gokudera didn't hear.
Gokudera's heart is racing, his hands trembling with relief so strong he has to fight to keep it from his voice. "Man, you had us worried." It's more true than he meant to say, more sincerity than he would have offered if he had more time to think, but he's shivering with gratitude and his mouth isn't entirely obeying him anymore.
Yamamoto looks straight at him for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise and his lips barely parted. Then he laughs weakly, the sound going soft until it sounds as bruised as he looks, and for just a moment he's grinning, wide and delighted in the way that lights up his whole face like the sun. Gokudera's breath catches, his expression falls into softness for a moment - and Yamamoto is turning to Ryohei, shifting the conversation away before Gokudera can do more than open his mouth to blurt something absurd, an apology or a confession or worse.
It's easy to let the worst of his adrenaline out in yelling at Ryohei. The other can take it, gives as good as he gets and doesn't so much as question Gokudera's aggression. And Yamamoto is right there, sitting up and laughing and doing his best to calm them both down as if he has been conscious and here this whole time.
It's so much easier with him here. Gokudera can feel habit falling back over him, pushing off the words he doesn't yet have for the future instead of the moment. It's easy to let it go again, easy to tell himself that he'll have time, still, to eventually find the right words and the courage to say them.
He just hopes that eventually will come for him before regret does.