Gokudera's life has become a lot more complicated since he met Yamamoto Takeshi.
He expected things to become easier after he had someone to follow. Sawada Tsunayoshi is hardly who he expected, but he is the Tenth, after all, and the title alone is enough to carry Gokudera on promises of the future. He's someone worth following, someone worth protecting, someone worth dying for, if necessary.
Yamamoto is none of these things. He's a idiot, he talks too much and laughs too loud, lingers by Gokudera's shoulder like he thinks they're friends and argues with a smile, like he thinks it's all sort of game, like everything that has ever mattered to Gokudera is a joke. And Gokudera can't get rid of him, can't shake him off at school and can't seem to avoid running into him in the mornings, until Yamamoto is all he's thinking about even when the other isn't there, even when Gokudera is inside the safely empty walls of his own apartment and free of the influence of baseball and smiles that don't quite touch the shadow in gold eyes.
He knows he should just ignore him, ought to carry on with his life and disregard the gaze he can feel against his features nearly all the time, now, as if he's something worth looking at and somebody worth spending time on. But he can't calm down when Yamamoto is looking at him, can't pay attention to what is important when all he can think about is the electric warmth of the other boy's shoulder too-close to his arm, and Gokudera's never been one to back down from a confrontation.
It only takes a few weeks for the tension to become unbearable. The arguments are enough alone, the fights Gokudera picks and Yamamoto accepts like a gift, the casual touch of Yamamoto's arm falling around Gokudera's shoulders only more frustration, and when Yamamoto trails Gokudera all the way back to his apartment for the second day in a row Gokudera is all done with even attempting patience.
"What do you want?" he demands, pivoting on his heel to glare at the other boy. Yamamoto is closer than he expected, so close Gokudera has to tip his head up to meet the weird soft look in his gold eyes, but he doesn't take a step back. This he's used to, by now, this thrumming tension in the space between them like the gap is magnetized to pull them closer together. It's easier to move in closer than it is to back away, with Yamamoto, so Gokudera doesn't move, holds his ground and holds his glare with all the vicious strain of intensity he can muster.
Yamamoto laughs. Gokudera knew he would, at this point, was ready for the burst of sound in the other's throat and the bright curve of a smile over his face. He doesn't even flinch from it, this time, just waits for the sound to abate while he takes a last drag off his cigarette, flicks the smouldering remains out into the pavement of the street. His mouth is set into a frown by the time Yamamoto's amusement has faded to a lingering smile, his hands braced into fists at his side to avoid the temptation of grabbing a handful of Yamamoto's loose t-shirt.
"I don't know what you mean," Yamamoto declares. When he blinks his eyes go soft and shadowed, shouting the understanding he's professing to lack. "I don't want anything."
"Why are you following me?" and Gokudera's hand is up at the shirt after all, his fingers twisting into a fist before he has time to call back the motion. His skin is prickling with tension, his heart pounding in his chest, and it's hard to keep his attention from sliding down to the smile that won't fade from Yamamoto's mouth. "You're always there, every time I turn around you're right there at my heels. Just go away, I hate you."
Gokudera can see the dark of Yamamoto's eyelashes when he blinks. They look like a line of shadow, suggestion given form shifting against the gold of his eyes, and when he meets Gokudera's gaze again there's something in his eyes, that sharp attention Gokudera has seen in glimpses before now, the momentary focus that makes Yamamoto look dangerous and magnetic lingering long now as he looks at the other. Gokudera is frozen in place staring at Yamamoto's eyes, so he sees the exact moment when they drop down, sliding away from their locked stares to focus significantly lower. Gokudera's whole face goes hot, his skin burning with self-consciousness, and he suddenly can't figure out what to do with his mouth, his frown melting away as his lips part of their own volition.
"I'll go away if you want me to," Yamamoto says without looking up. He's not resisting Gokudera's fistful of his shirt; Gokudera could pull him in if he wanted, could drag him bodily over the gap between them and crush the anticipation of the moment into action. But Gokudera doesn't move, stares instead at Yamamoto staring at his mouth while the other boy offers, "Do you hate me?"
The words are soft, melting over into sincerity, and Gokudera's whole throat closes up before he can bark the answer he intended to give. This isn't fair, this isn't how this is supposed to go; Yamamoto is supposed to resist Gokudera's pull on his shirt, is supposed to laugh and ignore his insistence that the other leave. He's not supposed to go quiet with intensity, he's not supposed to be breathing so hard Gokudera can hear it in the space between them, he's not supposed to be letting the silence between them go long and impossibly telling with Gokudera's lack of response.
"I-" Gokudera starts, but his lips won't obey him, he can barely speak at all for the effort it is taking to hold himself still. Yamamoto's eyes flicker up to his, the concentrated focus in them still burning away the usual easy unconcern of his expression, and when he looks back down he starts to duck in closer. Gokudera can feel the tension at the shirt clutched in his fingers going slack as Yamamoto leans in, as his motion bumps the resistance of his chest against Gokudera's knuckles. He can't see Yamamoto's expression anymore, they're too close for him to see anything but the smooth dark of the other's hair, and he knows exactly what is about to happen, is taking a breath in adrenaline-fueled anticipation before the contact comes.
And then Yamamoto stops moving.
He's ridiculously close, impossibly close, so close Gokudera can feel the rhythm of the other's rushed breathing against his skin. But he's gone still, hesitating in the last moment like there's something to be gained by denial at this point, like Gokudera's silence and stillness isn't more than enough invitation. Gokudera can't speak for fear of grazing Yamamoto's lips with the motion, can barely breathe for his attention to the other's inhales, and for a very brief moment he can imagine them standing here for minutes, for hours, the whole rest of his life stalled because he can't make it past this one hesitation.
Then he growls, hissing irritation instead of something more coherent, and tightens his hold at Yamamoto's shirt to drag the other in. There's a huff of air, the feel of laughter hitting Gokudera's lips, but only for a moment; then Yamamoto's mouth is pressed flush to his, and Gokudera's shutting his eyes against the friction, and whatever sound Yamamoto was about to make falls to silence between them. Yamamoto's mouth is barely open, his lips damp and as soft as his expression was, the contact so warm Gokudera is opening his mouth to the heat before he can think about it, instinct drawing him into motion. He has another hand at Yamamoto's shirt now, a pair of fists locked into the cloth, and his lips are humming with sound, Yamamoto whimpering satisfaction against his mouth, the details lost but the emotion clear on Gokudera's tongue. Gokudera's heart is fluttering into overdrive, his pulse thudding in his throat until he can't breathe, until he would need to pull away to gasp a breath, but he can't make himself draw back, he's parting his lips wider and Yamamoto is responding instantly to the suggestion and he tastes like heat, he tastes like summer rain and Sunday mornings and half-forgotten music, nostalgia like homesickness so strong Gokudera can feel the ache in his chest like a physical hurt.
He can't catch his breath until they pull away. Even then it takes him a moment, gasping for air like he can't remember how to breathe while his fingers tighten to print the shape of his hands into Yamamoto's shirt. There's a touch at his hip, careful fingers resting against him like Yamamoto's not sure he's allowed to touch, and there's an irony there when he's been so unafraid to throw an arm around Gokudera's shoulders before but Gokudera can't parse it cleanly for the adrenaline in his veins.
"I do," he says, the words falling from some part of his brain that was still paying attention to their conversation and not to how radiantly warm Yamamoto is through his shirt. "I do hate you, baseball idiot." The words lack any fire at all, a match trying to catch in a downpour, and Yamamoto laughs immediately without even waiting for Gokudera to look back up to his eyes. The shadows are gone from the gold; the sunlight catches the color, turns Yamamoto's eyes radiant and glowing until they match the unthought smile across his lips, and Gokudera can't breathe for the sight.
He's never seen Yamamoto look so completely happy before.