"I don't know what you're so cheerful about," Gokudera says as he retrieves another crisp shirt from the closet and begins the process of folding it for packing such that it will sustain as few wrinkles as possible. "Is flying still so novel that half a day of it is that much fun?"
"It is fun," Yamamoto says, his perpetual cheer as unaffected by the third flight to Italy in as many months as it is by everything else that would draw at least a frown out a reasonable person. Even the chore of packing for two weeks of meetings isn't enough to shake his smile; he's in charge of the t-shirts, since his idea of neat folding makes Gokudera shudder and most of the casual clothes are his anyway. "And I like Italy. It's like going on a vacation."
"A vacation full of work isn't a vacation at all." Gokudera eases the shirt into the bag balanced on his side of the bed, pauses what he's doing for the worthwhile cause of scowling at the top of Yamamoto's head. "How are you always so optimistic about everything?"
Yamamoto looks up at him, meets the determination of Gokudera's frown with the slow warmth of the smile that always somehow undoes the knot of tension in Gokudera's thoughts, no matter how hard he clings to it.
"I just look on the bright side," he says. "There's always so much to do in Italy."
"That's because we're busy," Gokudera growls. "If that's what you're looking for we could find you a lot more to do here too."
"I like the estate." Yamamoto has completely given up on his packing, now; he's drawing a leg up onto the bed, leaning forward over the half-full bag in front of him like he's tipping in to share a secret. His hair shows the ruffles of his own idle hands, a suggestion of Gokudera's fingers from earlier in the day; when he tips his head to the side his smile turns up wider at one corner. "I like our room."
This Gokudera can't argue with. The bed in their assigned room in Italy is feather-soft, the furniture all done in shades of brown so dark it looks nearly black, and after their first overnight stay he's had more than enough pleasant memories to tingle satisfaction into his blood at the idea. "Well." He tosses his head, reaches for a better argumentative tack. "I'm going to be in meetings until the evening anyway. What are you even going to do with yourself?"
"I thought I could do some extra training with Squalo," Yamamoto says, his smile going brighter at the idea. "It's been a while since he was free when we were in Italy. It'll be good to catch up."
Gokudera scoffs. "Squalo." He looks back to the closet, reaches for another shirt. "I don't even know why you like that guy."
"Hm?" Yamamoto offers, curiosity without bothering with the coherency of words. "What do you mean?"
"What's to like?" Gokudera asks. "He's a loud-mouthed jerk who thinks he knows everything and is too caught up in proving his own value to care about whether he's being rude or not." He flips the shirt over, brings the sleeves around; when he shakes his head it's without looking up at Yamamoto. "I have no idea what you see in him." He finishes folding the shirt, sets it atop the others in the bag, and it's only then that he realizes how quiet Yamamoto has gone and thinks to look up.
Yamamoto's not packing. He's looking at Gokudera with a strange softness in his eyes, the shape of a laugh tugging at the corner of his mouth and his expression weirdly relaxed on something Gokudera can't quite read. The uncertainty makes him uncomfortable, prickles foreboding down his spine as his hands still on the shirts in the bag.
"What?" Gokudera asks, feeling his shoulders tensing as they always do when he can't get a read on the situation. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Yamamoto shakes his head, huffs a laugh that is almost-silent for how soft it is. "Nothing," he says, and then, apropos of nothing at all: "I love you so much, Hayato."
It's not that Gokudera isn't used to hearing this. He's had years to acclimatize to Yamamoto's regular professions of affection, can take them in stride when he's at least minimally prepared. They're still startling out of the blue, though, catch him off-balance and turn his cheeks as dark as if he were fourteen again and hearing them for the first time.
"What?" he says stupidly, and then, "What was that for?" his voice skipping strangely high in his throat as Yamamoto's eyes catch his, familiar gold gone dark and smoky on that odd softness still.
"Just because," Yamamoto says, and he's abandoning the bag entirely, leaning forward to climb up onto the bed and reach for Gokudera's wrist to tug him in too. Gokudera growls incoherent protest, takes a step sideways to avoid the half-full luggage at the foot of the bed, but ultimately he lets Yamamoto pull him forward and onto the soft give of the mattress, close enough to submit to the fit of callused fingers into the silver of his hair.
"You're still an idiot," Gokudera says while Yamamoto is drawing him closer, his smile easing into the parted lips of expectation as his gaze dips down to land at Gokudera's mouth. "I don't know why I love you."
"Mm," Yamamoto hums, and Gokudera reaches out for his waist, curls his fingers into the soft fabric of the other's t-shirt as Yamamoto's fingers steady and brace against the back of his head. "That's okay."
It's unnecessary reassurance. Yamamoto's lips are warm, and his fingers are gentle, and if Gokudera truly needed a reminder of his reasons, he can find it in the shape of Yamamoto's smile against his mouth.