Gokudera isn't in the mood for company.
He's been lying in the dark of the bedroom staring at the frame of the bunk over him without moving for nearly thirty minutes. He's no closer to sleep now than when he laid down, the hum of his thoughts and the ache of his skin co-conspiring to keep him awake, but it's not sleep he wants as much as solitude, peace and darkness in which to wallow in his own failures. So when the door opens, creaking to let a sliver of light into the dark, Gokudera barely glances at the newcomer before he's rolling away, turning his face towards the wall and his back to the door.
"Go away," he growls, barely loudly enough for the sound to carry.
"You're still awake." Yamamoto's voice is too loud, as overly intense to Gokudera's hearing as the light was to his eyes. The cheer in his tone is no more welcome, even with the slow weight of exhaustion under it that led to the other boy passing out at the dinner table. "I'm glad."
"I'm not," Gokudera snaps. "Leave me alone."
"I've missed you," Yamamoto says, like he's suddenly stopped understanding language or possibly has spontaneously gone deaf. There's weight on the edge of the bed, Yamamoto's knees digging into the mattress as he fits himself into the space left by Gokudera's defensive position. Gokudera could throw an arm out, shove at Yamamoto's shoulder or kick at his leg, and he's sure that if he were insistent enough about it the other boy would leave him alone like he wants. He does want to be alone, he's sure of it, he can taste the bitter desire at the back of his tongue and burning behind his eyes. But he doesn't move, because as much as he wants to be alone he's aching for the comfort of company, that desire to be isolated is as self-destructive as it is sincere. He can recognize that, at least, even if he can't actively counter the impulse.
Luckily he doesn't have to. Yamamoto is sighing, a little purring sound of physical contentment as he stretches out onto the bed at Gokudera's back even before he rolls in close and warm against the other boy's shoulders.
"You're all bruised," he says, the words sleepy and considering more than they are condemnation. Gokudera wants to snap a retort, something about Yamamoto only just now noticing, but the tension in his shoulders is easing off and collecting in his throat instead and he doesn't trust the words to come out smoothly.
Yamamoto fits himself in closer, presses his knees in against the back of Gokudera's and his chest flat against the other's back. They're so close Gokudera can feel Yamamoto's breath tickling against his hair when the other boy sighs, can feel the shudder of vibration better than he can hear the satisfied whimper in Yamamoto's throat.
Gokudera is expecting Yamamoto to fall asleep. He collapsed into unconsciousness at the dinner table, after all, and the bed is soft and the room is dark; it would be perfect for sleep, if Gokudera felt so inclined. But Yamamoto is barely still for the length of a slow inhale before he's moving again, brushing his fingers down Gokudera's shirt and around his waist, sliding tentative contact up across the other boy's chest and out to close his fingers on Gokudera's wrist where it's curled in close to his face. His hold is gentle, so light it would be easy for Gokudera to throw it off and reclaim control of his arm. But when he stays still Yamamoto takes the weight of his wrist, lifts his arm up off the bed, and he's leaning in closer, curling around Gokudera's shoulder so he can press his mouth to the darkening bruise against the other boy's forearm.
Gokudera goes very still. It doesn't hurt, the pressure is too light to elicit any pain from the deep-down ache of the injury itself, but the contact shivers through him like a shock, he can feel the damp warmth of Yamamoto's mouth on his skin like a burn. The fingers at his wrist turn his arm upward, offer the pale stretch of exposed skin to Yamamoto's mouth, and when the other boy's lips brush over the cut at the inside of Gokudera's elbow he has to shut his eyes against the heat of tears.
Gokudera isn't badly hurt in any one place, but the bruises and scrapes make up for the lack of severity with quantity. Yamamoto is moving slow, too, his motion languid and easy with exhaustion from his own training. By the time he makes it up to Gokudera's shoulder, enough tension has bled off that Gokudera lets the other boy tug him over onto his other side, offers his other arm for Yamamoto's touch without a word. Yamamoto is breathing evenly with oncoming sleep when he reaches the scrape at Gokudera's forehead, and he doesn't say anything at all about the hiccuping pattern to Gokudera's breathing or the damp across the other boy's cheeks. He just touches his mouth to the raw skin, sighs contentment against Gokudera's hair, and finally comes in to offer a proper kiss against Gokudera's unhurt lips.
It's not enough to fix everything. It's probably not enough on its own to fix anything, in the long run. But Gokudera lets the warmth of Yamamoto's mouth drown out the self-doubt in his thoughts, and lets the reassurance of Yamamoto's touch draw off his tension, and lets the comfort of sleep sweep over him in time with the rhythm of Yamamoto's breathing.