I'm insane, and doing multiple writing challenges at LJ. Gokudera/Yamamoto is my claim at 30kisses, and this is my first prompt for them ("look over here"). It was only supposed to be a drabble, but uh...I have no self-restraint:D I hope everyone enjoys! (and yeah, this is a re-upload...the site was being wonky earlier)
Imprevisto
They're twenty years old, middle school only a memory, though it feels like they haven't left at all, if you don't stop to consider their lives are devoted to the mafia now. Yamamoto would eventually piece together the facts and come to the conclusion that he'd always been part of the mafia, when he thought they were just playing a game—albeit a violent, dangerous game. It isn't that he was stupid—part of him knew at fourteen, but he never paused to analyze things. He just did what he had to do, and what he had to do was become strong. Learn the sword. Evolve.
And the rest fell into place.
"You're bleeding, you asshole."
Yamamoto raises his eyebrows. He loves hearing Gokudera speak Italian, though he often wishes he understood more than a few words and phrases. He has a pocket-sized dictionary he takes with him on their sporadic trips to Italy, but watching him flip through it makes Gokudera so impatient that he usually yanks the book out of Yamamoto's hands and translates for him. Because of that, Yamamoto doesn't carry it around at home.
"Come again?"
Gokudera rolls his eyes and switches to Japanese. "Asshole."
"That can't be all you said."
"I gave you the gist of it."
Yamamoto chuckles. "Thanks, I think." He leans his head back, lets it rest against the sturdy wall of the enclosure that houses the stairwell. They meet here, on the roof of Namimori Middle, because it is a place they both know and both love. Familiarity has a way of providing comfort, of making long, sometimes grueling days seem not so bad.
Scowling, Gokudera nudges Yamamoto's foot, none too gently, with his own. They sit side-by side, so there isn't a lot of space between them, anyway. "The cut above your eye's bleeding."
"Mm?" Yamamoto touches the tender spot over his left eye and winces. It is bleeding. "Oh…whoops." A ricochet bullet had nicked him earlier—careless mistake, really—and he forgot to put a bandage on the resulting wound. He rummages in his pockets for some tissues, but Gokudera beats him to the chase and tosses a small package at his head.
"Idiot. Don't be so careless."
"Hahaha, sorry." Yamamoto opens the package and pulls out a wad of tissues to press to the cut. You sound mature, he thinks, and glances fondly at Gokudera, who is currently lighting a cigarette. Though I guess we are older.
Sometimes, it's hard to see anything but the kids they were. They still do stupid stuff, of course, the whole family (except maybe Hibari and Chrome). They tease each other and have food fights and sing obnoxiously and play Jenga or Pictionary until three in the morning. Tsuna's the kind of boss that encourages laughter. Says it's good for camaraderie (to the vast approval of Ryohei). Granted, he doesn't hesitate to kick your ass in the training room, and he expects you to perform your duties thoroughly and efficiently, however…he remembers his roots. He remembers the kid he was, too, and he's determined not to lose sight of that.
Things change, and they don't change.
Like Gokudera and Yamamoto, twenty years old and sitting on the roof of Namimori Middle like they'd never left it.
"How long do you think this'll last?"
Yamamoto lowers the tissues—the bleeding's more or less stopped. "How long will what last?"
"This." Gokudera motions at their surroundings with his cigarette. Night fell about twenty minutes ago, bringing with it the stars and the sounds of animals and insects moving about. The air's cold and crisp, but it's pleasant—they're sitting close enough together to keep warm. "Peace. Ever since the Varia conflict, things've gone smoothly…" Gokudera shakes his head. "Too smoothly."
Yamamoto's fingers tighten around the bloodied tissue. He hasn't spoken of this to anyone, but he's had his own bouts of unease lately, dark thoughts that he brushed aside as quickly as they passed through his mind. His policy is to trust to optimism, even when the odds aren't in his favor, though he cannot deny the legitimacy of Gokudera's concern, try as he might.
"I don't know," he says quietly, drawing both his knees up and resting his palms on them. "I'm not sure I'd want to."
"Why?" Gokudera sounds genuinely curious rather than judgmental, and Yamamoto suppresses a happy grin. It's taken a while, but Gokudera has begun to drop his defensive barriers around Yamamoto, barriers that, in the past, he only let down for Tsuna. Quite a significant development in their relationship, Yamamoto realizes, and he treats it with the care it requires.
"I'd rather handle each day as it comes instead of knowing and worrying about something I don't have any control over." He looks at Gokudera, who looks back. "Besides," he adds mischievously, "there's always the possibility that what we expect to happen won't happen. Something different will." To emphasize, he plucks the cigarette out of his companion's mouth and takes a drag, expertly, as if he'd been a smoker for years like Gokudera. "See?"
Later on, when Yamamoto remembers this moment, there are two things that will stick out the most. The first is the charmingly comical expression on Gokudera's face—a slack-jawed, wide-eyed manifestation of sheer disbelief—and the second is what occurs after.
"'The fuck," Gokudera splutters, at a loss for words.
The cigarette secure between his pointer and middle finger, Yamamoto chews on his lip (the urge to just giggle is overwhelming) and shrugs. "I hang around you so much I figured I oughtta be able to do it right." He smiles so wide his cheeks hurt, giddy and happy, but mostly happy, dark thoughts be damned.
Gokudera gawks at him for a fraction of a second longer, then leans in, grabs Yamamoto by the back of the neck, and kisses him. Not one of those cute, innocent kisses, either. This is the type of kiss that makes you wonder if you're not inadvertently trying to eat each other's tongues, or at the very least meld together at the mouth.
Apparently, Yamamoto's display of his secret talent had pleased Gokudera. A lot.
Their faces are flushed and they're breathing heavy when they break away. Gokudera's already wild hair is even wilder—Yamamoto had clutched at it with his free hand.
"Well then…uh…here," Yamamoto says once he locates his voice, and puts the cigarette back where he found it.
Gokudera gives him a look.
"Next time, get your own," he growls.
"Okay."
Despite his valiant effort, the giggles bust out of Yamamoto, and Gokudera soon follows suit because Yamamoto's laughing, which makes Yamamoto laugh harder.
"Owwww…my stomach…" he groans, wrapping his arms around his abdomen.
Gokudera calls Yamamoto a name in Italian and cuffs his shoulder. Yamamoto pokes Gokudera beneath his ribcage. Gokudera calls him more names, throwing in an old-fashioned "baseball freak" for nostalgia's sake. Yamamoto retaliates with "Hayato-chan," which earns him a black eye to match the cut (that's bleeding again).
They share the cigarette.
And Yamamoto thinks, it's definitely better not knowing the path before you walk it.