Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Genre and Pairing: Romance, Hurt/Comfort. Yamamoto/Gokudera.
Words/Progress: ~2300; Complete.
Notes: Non-AU (although timeline is ambiguous). Blood, sexual situations (frottage), excessive use of dashes, and stylistic repetition. Written for LJ's khrfest (prompt- 3.I.42: 8059, "time, time and time again").
Summary: There is so much blood to clean—so much—too much for Yamamoto to handle alone.
After moving with the utmost amount of guile for the past three...four...five? hours, a brusque creak welcomes Takeshi into his home for the night. It is too loud a sound—too awkward in the stillness around him and too much of a counterpoint to his too-blunt-too-weighted panting. With a glance thrown backwards, his eyes grope the poorly lit hallway for a sign of a stray movement; upon finding none, he pockets his key and sidesteps through the threshold.
The room is unsurprisingly pitch black; this Takeshi notices as he shuts the door behind him, leaning against it with tired eyes drawn closed. He absently reaches out to turn the three locks as he realizes that the urgency in his fingertips will not leave him anytime soon. He flexes his fingers, forcing his hands to lay flat against the door, fisting them then laying them flat once more. They still tingle. Fist—flatten—fist—extend—compress, but that still is not enough. Flatten—fist—flatten—fistflattenfistflattenfistfla—Takeshi stops mid-movement. Blood has reached the apex of his palm and he does not need another thing to clean.
He avoids touching the door as he straightens himself out: he simply steps forward and his body automatically balances while ignoring the stiffness in his knees. Blind save for the memory of the first and only time he had been here before, Takeshi makes his way to the kitchen (once out of the entrance alcove, it is the only door to the left, he recalled). He fishes for a chair and finds one, slumping into it. He is tired: the evening had done much to his young but no longer youthful frame; then there is the issue of cleaning... His feet hurt. Not bothering to untie them first, Takeshi toes off his Converse and nudges them aside with the heel of his right foot. He could be severely reprimanded for wearing such pedestrian shoes but they are far more comfortable than a pair of Tanino Crisci's (despite whatever various Family members claim), especially if he is running—running—always running; but then again, it is only his heart that runs: Takeshi has to walk slowly or risk being caught.
Now, he sits.
He has so much to do in so short a time—run through the report he will have to write for Reborn, buy milk and eggs, pay the phone bill, clean... renew his father's newspaper subscription—yet he sits and sits and sits and sits and—
He sits up when he hears the first lock turn. There is an attempt to push the front door open. Then a pause.
"I'm coming in."
Two more clicks, a damning creak and a series of paced footfalls later, Takeshi is no longer alone in the kitchen and the light—an ugly jaundice filter—turns on. Although he directs his line of vision toward the intruder, Takeshi does not see him. There's the lithe outline of Gokudera's legs, the slouch of Gokudera's torso and a blur of gray for Gokudera's hair; but beyond that there is only a haze of details and a feeling of something Takeshi cannot name.
Crossing his arms, Gokudera rakes his eyes up and down Takeshi's frazzled visage: the thick cotton socks, the dirt-covered pants hem, the blood that needs to be cleaned, the untucked shirt, the sweat-soaked jacket, the lack of a tie, the blood that needs to be cleaned... "You smell."
Takeshi smiles, automatically rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Got all comfortable and spaced."
"Doesn't give you the right to stink," Gokudera comments, and by the offhandedness of his tone, Takeshi knows he is twisting one of his rings with his thumb. The fair-haired man, after all, cannot tell who the blood belongs to. "Your clothes are going to stain."
He knows he has to clean: he knows full well that the sticky redness have already started to cling onto the fibers, but Takeshi only shrugs. "It's just the shirt. I had the jacket off for most of it, so it's still good."
"But that's Dolce & Gabbana," Gokudera says as he approaches his friend. "You cannot ruin Dolce & Gabbana."
"It'll be fine."
Standing just in front of Takeshi, leaning down slightly, Gokudera places on hand on the table and holds the other out. "Hand it over, jerk. There's no way something that expensive will be ruined on my watch."
Takeshi laughs, hoping it does not resound hollowly; the chuckle comes out sweet but short. "Says the guy who blows up walls on his spare time."
"Yama—"
"Dude, I'll run it under some hot water later. Sit down," Takeshi motions toward the seat across from him. "Relax."
Gokudera grunts, "I always knew you were an idiot." Slowly he grasps one side of Takeshi's jacket at the lapels. "May I?" The formality shames Takeshi, so he only nods curtly before Gokudera begins delicately pulling the soiled fabric off of Takeshi. He does little to assist the other in his task, letting Gokudera touch him—rearrange him—push his hands into the jacket sleeves in case Takeshi was injured and a wrong movement would bring him unnecessary pain.
No comment is made by either party when Gokudera has the jacket completely off: neither mentions the obviously makeshift, blood-heavy bandage wrapped around Takeshi's forearm: Gokudera just checks the lining for any stains and surprisingly finds none; he throws the jacket over the chair Takeshi had offered him.
Although he knows he should and is capable of doing it for himself, Takeshi allows Gokudera to unbutton his dress shirt. His breathing is even, but Gokudera's is not, and that alone is well worth the annoyance of playing the role of an invalid. And then Gokudera moves closer and closer as he unbuttons more and more until there are no more buttons to unbutton and he is close enough that Takeshi can actually see Gokudera—with his bright maudlin eyes and hands that sneak under Takeshi's also-bloody—everything is bloody—undershirt. Their foreheads touch and Takeshi can taste the cigarettes on Gokudera's breath: so-close-too close. He suppresses a... tremor? moan? hiss? and instead mutters, "Dolce & Gabbana."
Gokudera moves away while Takeshi shrugs his shirt off and hands it over. Gokudera takes it and moves about the kitchen in a deliberate sloth. Shirt in sink. Turn on the cold? water. Open a cabinet. Close it.
"How did you"—Open a drawer—"know I was here?" Close it. Open a cabinet. Close it. Open a drawer. Close it. Open a cabinet. Close it.
"Went to visit the Tenth"—Open a drawer. Close it—"and saw Reborn cleaning your"—Open a drawer. Close it—"katana." Open a drawer. Close it.
"Liar." Open a cabinet. Close it. "Too late for you to visit, and"—Open a cabinet—"I wiped it off myself."
Grab something: it's salt. Gokudera returns to sink and dumps salt into it. "I saw him with your katana."
"It's hidden."
Scrub. Scrub. "Reborn told me about your..."
"Lie." Rinse. "It was classified."
"I went to your house"—Scrub. Scrub—"and saw you weren't there."
Scrub. Scrub. "Wrong again. You'ld never go over to my place voluntarily."
"I followed you."
"That's—" Takeshi glances toward Gokudera and wishes he hadn't: the man has raised his hands out of the sink to shake out the coldness of the biting water, and they drip with a wetness tinted some sickly, dark and hideous shade of orange thanks to the jaundice—ugly, ugly, ugly—lighting. Drip—drip—drip. Blood-salt-water has reached the apex of Gokudera's palm and will reach his wristband if—it reaches; he has another thing to clean.
The gore does not belong with Gokudera... It is Takeshi's gore, not Gokudera's... the world spirals and all Takeshi can see is yellow and orange. "Yama—" He has to clean...
He has to clean...
Sickness churns Takeshi's stomach and burns the wound on his—no, he hasn't a wound: just a cut, no big deal.
He has to...
"—moto."
He has to.
"Yama—"
Gokudera's body is warm against Takeshi but his hands are cold underneath Takeshi's: wet and bloodnasty and very cold. He wants to move his hands away but he does not because he won't have Gokudera touching—scrubbing at his mess. Takeshi knows this is stupid because his haste only gets Gokudera bloodier: Takeshi's forearm plasters a webbed line onto Gokudera's skin; his undershirt leaves an imprint of his chest against the other's back. But at least Gokudera does not touch the mess. At least Takeshi has that. That is an accomplishment. That is good. That is the good he has done for the night, but the water still runs and the dress shirt is Dolce & Gabbana and drenched.
He presses his face into the crook of Gokudera's neck. Breathes in. The smell is sweet compared to the sourness of sweat and blood and dirt. "It's just a shirt."
"Let me turn around."
"No. It's just a shirt."
"Yamamoto."
"It's just a shirt."
Takeshi grasps Gokudera's hands, dragging them across the counter—a line of orange-red follows—another thing to clean, but Gokudera no longer touches the shirt. He considers what to do from there, but Gokudera makes the decision for him: he embraces himself so that Takeshi embraces him too. The water still runs, bloodnasty hands are less cold, and Gokudera's warm body is still against Takeshi.
"It's just a shirt."
"It's just a shirt."
Takeshi leans on Gokudera with tired eyes drawn closed.
"We can burn it."
"We will burn it."
"It was too late to clean it anyway."
"Okay."
"It'll be fine."
Then they breathe together and Gokudera confesses that he hadn't a clue that Takeshi would be at the apartment: that yes, he knew Reborn gave everyone keys to the place but no one used it so Gokudera just... crashed whenever he was bored with his own bed: that he wouldn't have come by if he had known Takeshi would be here and—If I'm intruding, I'll leave right now. Just tell me and I'll go.
Neither says anything more after that, but Takeshi moves his lips against the crook of Gokudera's neck in a quiet conversation of motion and compassion and—I want you here.
They stand together, and Takeshi knows he is gross and his forearm needs tending and he smells and his undershirt sticks to his chest like a second skin and that his face burns when he languidly presses Gokudera against the sink, but his friend does not stop him and that's all that matters.
They lean against the sink together and rock together again and again and again—the water still runs and neither Takeshi nor Gokudera breathes evenly: they are desperate for air and barely have enough willpower to keep themselves standing straight. Takeshi bites Gokudera to keep himself from gasping like a stupid—cliché—shocked virgin, finding himself lost as heat surges to his cock and an erection is there and trapped in his pants. He draws Gokudera closer and thankfully Gokudera takes it upon himself to rub himself against his friend. The blush grows and Takeshi's cock is stiff and stimulated enough that he can sense the cleft of Gokudera's ass as he moves against it.
He's shaking and the gore is so-close-too-close but he can ignore it for Gokudera—Gokudera moans, "Idiot," as he rips his hands away from Takeshi's and in but a few seconds, Gokudera's jeans are wrapped around his knees. Then there are hands at Takeshi's waist, awkwardly forcing Takeshi's pants down—the hem is now blood-tainted: Gokudera's bloodnasty hands wet the top of the pants but do not quite manage to perform their task.
"Jerk," Gokudera says, this time whining for action. Although he does not want to, Takeshi loosens his hold around Gokudera and Gokudera turns in Takeshi's embrace; their eyes finally meet and Gokudera's ask a silent "May I?" to which Takeshi answers with a short but eager nod.
With his panting too-sharp-barely-weighted, Gokudera unbuttons and unzips Takeshi's pants and draws out the erection he finds there without bothering to undress the other any more. "Sorry about this," is all the warning Takeshi gets before Gokudera yanks him closer and indecently spits on his hand before grasping both their cocks in a clumsy fist.
Takeshi—horrified by the red-blood-water mixed with the spit that now coats the hardness between them—horrified by the glance he caught over Gokudera's shoulder of the sink's contents and of the water that still runs—horrified by the stiffness in his knees as he fumbles to keep up with his friend's pace—laughs, knowing that it resounds with lust and recklessness that brings tingles to his fingers. He holds Gokudera's shirt in tight balls in his fist which he twists and pulls in rapid succession: just twist—pull—twist—pull—fist—yank—tremble as he cums and Gokudera cums and Gokudera lets go off their cocks and in a move that is too shocking for Takeshi to react to, Gokudera wipes the proof of their orgasms on Takeshi's undershirt.
They breathe.
And soon, Gokudera will erupt when he realizes just how disgusting they are: cum, blood, sweat, salt and all; and they will spend an hour showering and then another hour thirty minutes later washing Takeshi when he breaks down with the same blind mania he had when he entered the apartment. Later, they will burn an utterly soiled undershirt and a Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt; call Shamal to inspect Takeshi's forearm; decide that they may use their first names to address one another if no one else is in their company; and fuck in the jaundice kitchen once again.
But now, now they stand, leaning against the sink for support with only their breathing and the brusque rush of water that they have yet to turn off.