Story Title: The Degenerates
Rated: R for language and vague mentions of the horizontal mambo
Status: Complete // 700+
Summary: [Fong/Gokudera] The only way a lesson can be learned is through regret, and Fong is willing teacher.
Steve's Notes: Before you point fingers, notice mine is pointed at tsunayoshi. (THAT'S RIGHT BOSSU, THIS IS ON YOUR CONSCIENCE.) I don't know when this takes place, but Fong is somehow magically (sex on a stick) an adult again, because the alternative makes my brain commit ritual shota suicide.
Disclaimer: Katekyou Hitman Reborn! © Amano Akira
There's a moment separated between the execution of an action and the consequence of that action that allows for the completion or abortion of it. This is something Fong was taught and something he strives to teach his students—yet he knows that the lesson can only be taught by regret, as it was taught to him. His teacher, an old woman with arthritis in her joints and reflexes like summer lightning, called it liángxīn; yet as a master, Fong has never been able shape the true meaning of it with shallow, human words.
So when Fong twists his fingers in Gokudera Hayato's silver hair, wrenches the younger boy's head back to a discomforting angle, and bites a kiss onto the Italian's flushed mouth, the Arcobaleno cannot blame the heat of the moment. He knows what he's doing and why he's doing it; he could have stopped himself.
He doesn't.
Perhaps it is because it has been so long, a man who was a child for over twenty years. Perhaps it is because of the way Gokudera Hayato tilts his head back when he snaps a reply, jade eyes flashing and teeth set into a protective snarl. Perhaps it is because Fong sees the desperation inside Gokudera Hayato that is within Fong himself, the chaotic whirl of degenerative flames threatening to splinter each cell, each organelle, each strand of DNA. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it is everything.
Gokudera Hayato is surprised. He sucks in a gasp through his thin nose and tries to jerk back. Fong has predicted Gokudera Hayato's skittish reaction—he is quite easy to see through, like glass—and tightens his grasp in the sensitive hairs at the nape of his neck just as Fong allows him to pull away from him with a slick pop, an Italian, "Christo!", and then a Japanese, "Kutabare!"
"You don't mean that," Fong whispers calmly as Gokudera Hayato's fists bunch in the crimson fabric over Fong's chest. "Do you?"
"Of course I fucking mean it, shit-face!" Gokudera Hayato snarls. "You just fucking—you—"
"Kissed you," Fong fills in for the stuttering younger man, whose blood rushes to his cheeks and ears even as he pulls a fist back for a strike. Fong catches it easily in his palm, twists Gokudera Hayato's arm around and presses it uselessly to the small of his back. "Yes. You wanted me to."
Gokudera Hayato's mouth struggles for words like a fish's mouth struggles for water above the sea. It amuses Fong enough for him to delay the second kiss with a smooth smile and an entertained chortle, but not long enough for Gokudera Hayato to pull his scattered wits back and shove him away. Fong scrapes his teeth against Gokudera Hayato's bottom lip and slips his tongue past Gokudera Hayato's sharp incisors, touching the ridged skin behind. There's a gasp that could have been a whine, a relaxation of tense tendon and muscle. Fong feels the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek and knows—as he knew before he acted—that he would be accepted.
Gokudera Hayato is willing as Fong knew he would be. He lets Fong unbutton his shirt and unbuckle his belts; he lets Fong unlace his shoes and unzip his jeans; he lets Fong strip him and lay him bare. Only his rings, necklaces, burn scars, and haughty pride remain when Fong removes his crimson changshan and gently spreads Gokudera Hayato along its length. He swears and spits, scratches and sweats, whines and whimpers and writhes as Fong kisses him, soothes him, covers his ivory skin in kisses and bruises. Gokudera Hayato comes before Fong and lies undone, his pupils dilated to the edge of his irises and his limbs weak and his muscles quivering with exertion and endorphins.
He is, Fong thinks sadly, the most beautiful thing he's ever had to break.
"You're fucking crazy," Gokudera Hayato murmurs after Fong comes with a soft grunt, when the sweat has dried to minute salt crystals on their skins. He sits up and reaches over to his discarded jeans, pulls a cigarette from a crumpled package and lights it with a heavy silver lighter that clinks against his rings. The smoke is rancid, but Gokudera Hayato's eyes are calm like center of a typhoon—peaceful, for now. Fong wishes to tell the boy that this—this serenity—will never happen again, yet nothing passes his lips save air.
The best teacher, after all, is the sharp, bitter edges of regret—something Fong can impart, but never teach.
Translation Notes:
liángxīn: Chinese for conscience
Christo: Italian for Christ
kutabare: Japanese for fuck you/go to hell
end.