Title: Just This Once
Rating: T?
Characters: Yamamoto/Gokudera, Tsuna
Warning: BL and mild angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyoshi Hitman Reborn! or any of the characters. That right belongs to Amano Akira...
He pulls a folded photograph from his pocket. At the center of the photo, at the center of their world, is the Tenth. To his right is himself, proudly as the Tenth's right-hand man. And there...there to the Tenth's left, is him, him with that idiotic smile, his right arm draped over the Tenth's shoulders and a baseball bat propped on his left shoulder.
How he longs to go back to those days, those days of snowball fights and fireworks, of crazy antics and festivals.
With a silent curse, he snuffs out the cigarette smoldering down to a stump between his teeth.
For a fleeting moment, he wonders how black his lungs are now. Probably as black as black balloons. But then the thought passes, melancholia pulling him down like an iron ball sinking him to the bottom of the sea.
He looks back at the photo, at the baseball freak's stupid, stupid smile.
A tangle of naked limbs, long and pale. An exchange of heated kisses. Trembling hands sliding down slick bodies. Silver strands of hair clinging to sweat-streaked skin. Soft Italian curses, gruff and breathless. A smile and that laugh, that idiotic laugh...
His phone rings, breaking the solemn silence of the lobby. The nurses give him glares, though more for smoking than for the disturbance.
"Gokudera-kun," the Tenth's familiar voice greets him over the phone.
"T-tenth, good morning!" he answers, striding out into the harsh winter air.
"Gokudera-kun...you're there again, aren't you?" the Tenth asks.
The boss' instincts are as sharp as ever.
"...yes, I am..." he admits. His breath rises into the air in white clouds, sparkling in the stark sunlight like tiny diamonds before melting into the air.
"How...how is he doing?"
"I haven't seen him yet..."
"Oh, then...I'll call back later..."
The connection ends abruptly. He stands for a moment, listening to the dead tone left behind.
The Tenth keeps blaming himself for what happened that day, for something that could never be the Tenth's fault. Because it was his own...
Fuck...he had been careless, letting that idiot wander these kinds of streets at night.
"Ahahaha, don't worry about it."
"Shut up, you idiot!"
They stood back to back, facing their silhouetted attackers.
This was exactly the kind of situation that the Tenth had stressed for them not to enter.
He re-enters the hospital and trudges up the stairs. He could walk there blindfolded. The path to his destination was now as familiar as his apartment flat.
Fuck. Fuck.Panic choked him as he fell to his knees. The fucking idiot.
"Yamamoto," he croaked. "Stupid baseball freak..."
"Aha..ha..." A wet cough. And blood drenching bloody clothes. Blue moonlight on shards of a broken sword. "Gokudera, tell Tsuna...tell Tsuna that I'm sorry..."
He knocks on the door before entering. The room's patient perches on a stool by the window. The patient turns when he steps in.
"...do I know you?" the patient asks with a gaze as empty as a wasteland. "They say I won't ever remember anything. Did I know you?"
"...yes...you did..."
His own gaze is not empty, but craving, yearning for what is gone. For this is Yamamoto, but not Yamamoto. It is his face, his body, his voice, but...the idiot he knew is not there.
The patient slides off the stool, and his gaze is drawn to the bare feet touching the unforgiving cold floor. He sucks in his breath as the patient comes close enough for him to feel the warmth of his body.
"...you are..."
"Gokudera Hayato," he murmurs, as if his name could recall the patient's lost memories.
The patient touches his cheek, his lips, and he trembles. His nails dig into his palms, heavy rings biting into his fingers.
"You...were important to me, weren't you, Gokudera?"
Was he? Was he ever? That idiot...he had never been able to tell...
Soft lips against his, long fingers through his hair...
With a grunt, he pulls away, but he hungers for more. A smile on the patient's face, but it's not his. He turns away, but the hand on his arm is strong.
The hospital bed groans in protest, never meant for two. He keeps telling himself to stop, to run from the room. But he is thirsty, thirsty for him, for the lips caressing his body, the strong arms around his body...
In an hour, the patient will wake with no memory of Gokudera Hayato but for the lingering scent of cigarettes and gunpowder. But now, even if it isn't him, even if there is no stupid laugh, just this once, he will indulge himself...