Written for the 2009 minibang project over on LJ.
Warning: Lots. Kisses, swearing, masturbation, kidnapping, mentions of torture and rape.
i. Not like the others
under the moon and stars
"Dad?" The boy's voice echoed softly off the dark walls of the restaurant, the only other occupant being his father cleaning down the last tables. The man acknowledged his son with a quiet hum, not looking up from his routine work. "Am I.... Am I sick?"
The question gave Tsuyoshi pause. He stopped in his cleaning and straightened - giving a quiet groan as his back clicked back into place - and scrutinized his son with a kind eye. Sick?" What do you mean 'sick', son?" He asked calmly, his voice as sweet and welcoming as ever, despite the hint of confusion mixed in there.
"Well.. uh... ahaha.. The thing is.." When Takeshi trailed off, his father could only place down the cloth he was using to clean the tables and step closer to his son, placing his hands on his shoulder with a small encouraging smile, asking him to continue. "The team, and almost every other guy in the school... they spend a lot of their time talking about girls or girlfriends or even..." He trailed off again, averting his gaze as a small blush adorned his cheeks. When he finally found the will to speak again, his voice was quiet, almost embarrassed. "…sex." Tsuyoshi could only nod slowly - still confused out of his mind - but waited to see what the boy was getting at. "We-Well, I never really felt the need to talk about anything but sport with them, but seeing everyone get so... I guess you could say worked up over these girls makes me feel like something's wrong with me."
The man blinked, taking a small moment to think over the confused words of his son. Are you gay? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Takeshi? The man's sudden laugh took the center-fielder - whom was unaware of his father's thoughts - by surprise and left him looking even more confused, and even a little hurt at the possibility that his dad - a man he loved and trusted - was laughing at him for being different. Tsuyoshi was quick to pick up his mistake and remedy it. "You aren't sick," The elder Yamamoto explained with a smile, ruffling his son's hair affectionately. "You just... have different priorities." Tsuyoshi quietly hoped that his son wouldn't take that the wrong way - can it be taken a wrong way? - and was relieved to see the old familiar grin set back on Takeshi's lips.
"R-Really?" He asked, sounding as relieved as his dad felt, his shoulders dropping from what seemed to be relief from tension that had been keeping him on edge in recent days - tension Tsuyoshi had only passed off as anticipation for the next game. "That's great. I... was starting to get worried." He laughed and rubbed the back of his head, his grin widening slightly as his dad's laughter was added in before it weakened into a soft smile.
What now? Tsuyoshi watched his son worriedly, wishing he could understand why his son was experiencing such rapid mood swings these days, refusing to blame the eighteen-year old's hormones this time around - this had never happened before, and the boy had hit puberty long ago, so it had to be something stressing him out.
"There... There is someone," Takeshi started shyly - What is wrong with you, son? Since when have you been shy about anything? - gaze stuck on his shoes. "They make me feel... different. Happy. I don't really know to describe it." He gave a nervous laugh, glancing up at his father's confused face before looking at his feet again. "It's… kind of like how I felt when I hit my first home run, or got picked as a regular for the team back in middle school. When I talk to them, it feels like the first time I was batting where the bases were all full and I managed to get everyone home and win the game." That particular scenario had happened quite a lot, especially in recent years, but the first time was one he'd never forget. "I just can't help but feel good around them, even if they don't seem to like me hanging around."
That gave it away for Tsuyoshi. Instantly, a light bulb in his mind clicked on and a smile graced his entire face as he punched at his son's shoulder playfully. "Just because you like another boy in the same way a boy likes a girl," He grinned in encouragement, pulling his son closer in a one-armed hug. "It doesn't make you any less of a man, son, and it doesn't mean anything's wrong with you. It simply means that someone you truly care for is more similar to you than a girl is." He chuckled good-naturedly, bidding his son good night before watching him climb the stairs, shaking his head with a smile as he continued to hum to himself.
That boy... He's in for a surprise.
can you find where hides the love
It's so dark out. Where's the moon tonight? Yamamoto gave a soft sigh, standing from where he had been seated on the roof and stepping back through the open window into his bedroom. It was late - well after midnight - and he was having trouble sleeping. His mind was a jumble from his conversation with his father and the topic of said conversation. He dropped onto his bed, closing his eyes briefly before snapping them open again as the familiar image of silver-grey hair flashed on the back of his eyelids. Rolling onto his back, he bit down on his lip and slowly trailed a hand down his bare chest - the late-spring nights were warmer than normal this year - and teased his fingertips beneath the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts. A small gasp escaped his lips and his eyelids fluttered shut again, his mind pushing away all his doubts from earlier and leaving the space open for only his imagination. Bright green eyes were the first thing he saw, making him grin wide, and then wider as the rest of the familiar pale face faded into view. Silver-grey bangs framed the scowling face and Yamamoto had to bite back a laugh; had to remind himself of where he was and what the time was - it wouldn't do him any good to wake his dad at some unearthly hour of the morning.
It was like a movie of a classic school day playing out in his head, watching the bad-mouthed Italian yell at him for being late to Tsuna's in the morning then yell at him again on the way to school for making them even later, despite the fact they always arrived with enough time to greet all their friends - all his friends, at least. Seeing all those other faces in the memory brought Yamamoto pause, the hand closed around his length stilling as unwanted doubt crept into his mind.
They were the faces of team mates, classmates, boys he had played on sports teams with for years now. They were faces that he feared rejection from; people who he loved as one big family - aside from the family from the mafia game, of course - and feared losing just because he was a little different from them. He had seen it before, as well, how people treated others 'like him'; other boys who came out and made it public that they weren't like the majority when it came to who they liked. He feared the rejection. He feared that hate. He feared the isolation and exclusion that was forced upon those people who were almost feared by the 'normal' ones - people who couldn't see how it was possible to like someone of the same gender in a romantic way.
My friends are different, He insisted, running his unoccupied hand over his forehead to smear the thin layer of sweat that had come to rest there up into his hair - sweat was the reason his hair was so spiky, not gel or other hair products. The hand around his cock resumed its previous duty - pumping slowly - while his mind pushed away those unkind faces that he had seen hurt others just because of who they liked and concentrated on the face he wanted. He watched the face's expression contort slightly, the scowl slowly replaced by a happy smile - the very same smile he had always wanted to be directed at him, rather than only to his future Boss. He could understand why Gokudera loved Tsuna as much as he did - Tsuna was the only one who had tried to help settle the international student into school, after all - but he couldn't see why Gokudera Hayato, a boy with a fan club almost as big as his own, refused to smile for anyone else. There was no discrimination in the other boy's ways - only dislike and mistrust for everyone around him.
But that was why Yamamoto was so determined. He had the determination and stubbornness needed to try and get the attention of one of the school's most anti-social students on him for a good reason – a reason he wanted – and so, in the darkness of the still night, Takeshi made a vow. iI will make him open up to me. I will get him to smile for me./i A muffled cry from a face buried in a pillow and the shuddering of the center-fielder's body sealed his promise, leaving him panting as he wiped his hands clean. iI have to try./i
breathing down your neck
ii. What I want
i see the moon
Like many things in life, the vow he had made was easier said than done. Every time Yamamoto so much as smiled – or even glanced - at Gokudera, he would just glare back at him, point out a fault in whatever the center-fielder was doing and turn around, ignoring him effortlessly.
It had been little over a week since he had confided within his father and Takeshi was losing confidence in himself again. It was the last class of the day and he couldn't concentrate – he was surprised with those that could concentrate on math in the warm afternoon of the late spring – so he had given up listening to the teacher babble on about the x- and y- and z-axis and taken to staring at the back of a certain silver-haired head.
Back in middle-school, he would have had to turn around in his seat and stare past a few heads just to get a glance at the bomber but now – seated in their class in their final year at high school – all he had to do was look up from his workbook – open or not – and he would be greeted with the lithe back of the slender – yet somehow muscular – Gokudera Hayato – better known as Smokin' Bomb Hayato, or the dedicated right-hand man of the future Vongola Tenth.
Remember those people who could concentrate on math at the end of the school day on a sticky spring afternoon? This guy was one of them. Yamamoto was constantly in awe of Gokudera's ability to maintain an average grade of one hundred percent every year since they had met – as well as fit in a few extracurricular classes just to keep himself 'entertained' – but still have time to train and perfect battle moves, assist their mutual friend Tsuna in anything he needed to do and be on the bad side of every teacher in school. Takeshi could barely keep his grade above a pass, even during the baseball off-season.
Hayato's smarts weren't the only thing that the swordsman was in awe of. Ask any member of the GAC – Gokudera Appreciation Club, a sister club to the YAC; the Yamamoto Adoration Committee – and you'll receive a fifteen-minute long 'speech' on the Italian's looks alone, full of swooning and fawning and sparkles – cardboard cut-outs courtesy of the junior members. There was rarely a time that Takeshi would disagree with their descriptions full of extended metaphors, if ever.
His eyes alone would captivate Yamamoto and have him thinking for hours; the green of the spring grass before it is covered with sakura petals, so soft and welcoming when he's at peace – smiling with his Tenth or playing the piano in an empty room when he thinks he's all alone – yet so piercing and sharp with anger or thought or concentration or just from being in the presence of one 'yakyuu baka'. They contrast against the smooth silver of his hair, so thin and beautiful hair that the dark-haired teenager just wants to run his hand through to see if it really is as soft as it looks – and almost does during this particularly slow day in class – but doesn't out of fear for his life.
When it comes to his body, Yamamoto has never seen anything more perfect. The mix of the Italian and Japanese blood gives Gokudera the best features of each world and Takeshi has never seen anything more beautiful than the way the foreigner's muscles contour to his bones – so small yet so strong – or the way his not-too-pale skin fits his build perfectly, with barely a wrinkle anywhere, even he furrows his brow in thought or a scowl.
The one thing about the bomber that catches Yamamoto's eye the most – and holds it without fail – is his smile. Not the large, toothy grin he shows when talking excitedly about a battle or how he's perfected a new move, but the more subtle one that no-one else seems to notice; the smile where the very corners of his mouth turn up ever-so-slightly and small, pin-point dimples appear on his cheeks and his eyes light up and look so soft. It is the smile Gokudera shows to Tsuna when he thinks no-one else is looking and it is the smile that Takeshi wants directed at him just once.
the moon sees
Maybe I just shouldn't bother. The clang of bone meeting metal echoed in the empty changing room, it's only occupant standing in front of his closed locker, his forehead resting on the door with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He didn't care that said towel was threatening to fall, the corner untucking itself and slowly losing its grip on itself. It wasn't until a small breeze blew through the locker room – from under the fire exit door at one end to the main door at the other – that he bothered to lift the towel to cover his exposed rear.
It wasn't unusual for Yamamoto to be the last one to finish changing after baseball practice – especially on a Friday – but it was definitely odd to see him locking up the changing room because his coach and the groundskeeper had already left. It only ever happened when he was distracted and fell victim to the 'three strikes' policy his coach kept in place during train; strike one and you were running laps, strike two and you were on clean up after practice, strike three and you weren't playing in the game that weekend. Luckily for Takeshi, the only other experienced pitcher on the team – who they needed for their quarter-final game – was on suspension for his grades, and Yamamoto was the next-in-line. So, instead, he had ended up with two extra hours of practice – running laps, repetitive slides, catching balls hit by the coach and all other sorts of drills – all because he had been unable to concentrate during practice thanks to a certain bad-mouth, silver-haired, dynamite-wielding Italian dominating his mind.
Dry, dressed and packed up, the last thing Takeshi expected to see when he locked the changing room and turned around was that very same distraction leaning against the back of one of the dugouts, head bowed with a glowing cigarette held skillfully between lips at the corner of his mouth. "Go-Gokudera?" He said in surprise, pocketing the keys he would need to return to the groundskeeper come Monday. The younger boy looked up at him, Yamamoto's heart skipping a beat as dark, confused eyes meet green ones that had just been pulled from a private world in the bomber's mind before they were avert, looking down at his feet. "What are you doin-"
"Don't get too happy, idiot," Hayato bit out around his cigarette as he stood, hands buried in pockets. "I'm only here because Tenth-" There was small falter in his scowl, the tiny smile not unnoticed by the swordsman. "asked me to babysit you." A laugh in acknowledgement was all it took to get the Italian moving, stalking off without waiting for the grinning Rain Guardian.
As they walked side-by-side in silence, a small prayer to every god, deity and divine being Yamamoto could think of was formed inside his head. It was a thanks for many things; a thanks for the strength to wait as long as he had and for the prize he had received for his month long struggle – the perfect opportunity to tell Gokudera what was on his mind, straight from the heart.
all that i do
The sun had almost set before the silence between them had broken. They were sitting on the low swings at a park not too far from where they would normally break off and head their separate directions – Gokudera to his apartment and Yamamoto to his father's restaurant that connected to the back of their house. The center-fielder had been the one to break the silence – no surprise – creating small talk that seemed more like a one-sided conversation, especially when the only replies he got were in the forms of grunts and snorts of the uninterested sort.
Eventually, though, Yamamoto's gaze dropped and he stared at his feet in silence for a moment before churning out sentences that just didn't seem to make sense. He spent at least ten minutes stumbling over words, face growing redder as Gokudera got more annoyed until he reached the point that he stood, making to leave. Takeshi was glad he stopped, even if he only stopped at the sound of three little words blurted out to make Gokudera stay just a little longer; I like you.
The silence that hung between them was think and heavy and tense and forced the swordsman to keep his head bowed, counting the pieces of woodchip at his feet. He didn't know how long the silence dragged on for, but the bomber seemed to be intent on not moving from where he stood in front of the Rain Guardian. Finally, Yamamoto made the choice to look up. He barely registered the aggravated look as a ring-adorned fist connected with his cheek, the force knocking him from the swing where he sat. His eyes closed and he watched his heart shatter on the back of his eyelids as his body hit the unmoving ground.
And he lay there. He lay there unmoving as the other stood over him, yelling as loud as he could. What he was saying, the swordsman didn't know, nor did he care. The punch alone had said more than enough; had rejected more than just his love.
His friend – a person he had come to know and trust over the past three or four years – had rejected his entire being; struck him down because he liked people in a different way to the norm. He thought his friends would be able to accept him for who he was, but it seemed he wouldn't even get that. At least not from the person that mattered the most to him outside of his small family. Why did I bother? I was kidding myself, thinking I'd be able to be different from the rest of the people like me; that I'd be welcomed with open arms instead of shunned like everyone else before me.
is twist in the breeze
iii. What have I done
someone's found a way
"Yamamoto-sama? Yamamoto-sama?" Tsuna's voice filled the mostly empty front of house of Takesushi the moment he and Gokudera walked through the door of the restaurant. One of the waiters who had been cleaning down the tables in preparation for service took them to the back of house and into Tsuyoshi's office. On seeing the man – the father of their close friend – both boys suddenly felt on edge.
He seemed stressed. In fact, he seemed more than stressed. There were bags under his eyes, and his tone as he thanked and said good-bye to whoever it was he was on the phone with was shaky and uneven and threatening to crack. He took a moment to close his eyes, breathing slowly before forcing a weak smile into place and looking at them. "How can I help you, boys?"
"A-ah," Tsuna was nervous as he spoke, unnerved by the weary look on the man's face. "We were looking for Yamamoto. He wasn't at school today. I-Is he okay?"
"I was actually hoping you could tell me."
Tsuna blinked. "Ya-Yamamoto-sama?"
"Takeshi didn't come home on Friday night."
For Gokudera, those words froze time. His eyes were wide with shock as he instantly started blaming himself, as a human being was prone to do – or at least one who had spent the weekend thinking about what had been said and what to say to the baseball star the next time he saw him. As far as he was aware, he had been the last person to see that baseball idiot. Maybe I was too harsh… Thinking back to how he had reacted to the sudden confession – he rubbed his knuckles, sore from where the rings had been jammed between two sets of bone – he feared he had caused this mess. Did he run away? No… That's not his style. He growled softly. And it's obvious he didn't kill himself, because there's been no report about a dead teenager. It would've been all over school, anyway. Groaning in annoyance to complete the orchestra of his frustration, he ran his hand through his hair then froze.
"Go-Gokudera-kun…"
"You wouldn't happen to know what happened, would you?" The glint in Tsuyoshi's narrowed eyes screamed suspicious and the bomber found himself unable to move under that gaze. He shook his head with a polite, 'No, sir,' and silently thanked his beloved Tenth who instantly began talking of organizing a search party.
"Sounds like a good idea, Tenth," Gokudera instantly. He has to be doing this in spite of me. I didn't know how to react.
to break into my mind
iv. This isn't right
the street
It's like hell. There is no other way he could describe it. It is a prison cell, with concrete walls and a concrete floor and a concrete ceiling. The only leniency is the small window just of reach which always lets the draught in when it comes from the south. There is no glass to stop it, the pane shattered into millions of little pieces on the floor beneath it from the entire building being abandoned, and the moth-eaten curtains provide no comfort or protection for the lone body pressed into the corner at the opposite end of the room from the window and as far away from the locked door – the door that opens to reveal a nightmare –as he can possibly get.
Yamamoto Takeshi is naked and freezing, the only heat for his body coming from himself. He pulls his knees even closer into his chest, arms hugged tightly around them despite the pain that wracked his body. They were everywhere. Scars and bruises covered him from head to toe – from the bite marks on his face and neck to the cuts from a knife on his ankles – all contributed to the dried blood that not only stained his body, but the floor around him as well.
There has never been a moment in his life where he wants to die more than he wants to right now. His mouth is so dry that he can't even speak, let alone scream like he wants to, and the lack of being able to sleep makes his body weary. He can't sleep. If he sleeps, then the nightmares – the memories of his horrible and recent torture – will envelope him and destroy him even more than he's already been.
He already sees them on the back of his eyelids whenever he lets them fall. A flash of blue hair before mismatched eyes – blue and red – glow in the dimly lit room, the only light coming from the setting sun through the small window, before everything goes black and he can't see anything at all. He can only feel his captor on top of, behind him, around him, inside him. Hands roam in ways that would normally be seen as intimate but now only caused pain with their cold, heartless touch; touching places that only ever been touched by himself in the comfort of his bed at home, with his warm blankets and the great view of the night sky, and the image of a classmate plastered into his mind.
His memories became a happy place, but it only worked for the first day. It only worked when cold hands were warm; the now-mocking voice had been kind and welcoming and had even asked if he could do what he planned. Takeshi had said no and it had still happened, yet he had felt safer than he did now. There had been a bed, blankets and nothing but their two bodies – plus the blindfold the center-fielder had been forced to wear – and he had been able to sleep because he had been walked through what was happening. It was only that first time – his first time – that he could pretend that the person on top of him, behind him, around him, inside him was someone completely different.
But with the next night came the cold and the knives and the pain and all chances of ever seeing Heaven being destroyed had Yamamoto losing hope.
the smells
A warm hand jerked Yamamoto awake from his fatigue-induced sleep. It had been five days since he was first captured and the glass of water that was held to his lips the moment he lifted his head was cherished. He took a few sips from the glass, pulling away on instinct as a wet finger slid across his eyelids before he forced himself to stay still. A few moments later, he slowed opened his eyes enough to register the blurry image of a boy crouching in front of him, still holding the glass close enough to his lips for more water. As Takeshi continued to sip at the well-received water, he tuned out the soft mumbling of the boy in front of him.
"I trust Mukuro-sama, but at this rate, he'll end up killing you."
The swordsman had barely finished the water before he was pulled to his feet and supported by another boy, his spiky, blond hair easily recognizable. It's Ken. He glanced back to the first boy and opened his mouth to laugh, only to find that was still unable to make sound. Chikusa as well. I… I wonder what's going on.
Resigned to silence, Yamamoto used Ken as a leaning post while the pair of boys silently helped him into thick, warm clothing – though anything at all was welcome, considering he had been naked for five days. Once the clothes were on, he found himself having blankets draped around him and he began to get feeling back into his body. He slowly sat down, managing a weak smile as Chikusa draped a few more blankets around him.
"It will better for everyone if you cooperate with Mukuro-sama, Yamamoto Takeshi," Chikusa said calmly after a quick word with Ken who had since left the room. The Rain Guardian listened to Chikusa intently, curious to understand. "You are an essential key to his latest plan to possess the Vongola Tenth."
M-Me? Wh-What? Why me? Yamamoto hated not being able to talk about his predicament, wishing he could speak again, but all thoughts of confusion and self-hate for being so weak were washed away as Ken handed him a bowl of miso soup. He sipped at the drink, using the bowl to conceal a frown at Chikusa's last words as the pair left;
"We will look after you. Not for your sake, but for the sake of Mukuro-sama and his plan."
the sense of the underworld
The sound of the opening door roused Takeshi from his sleeping and glancing up at the door. He froze at the familiar sight of blue hair and pressed further into his usual corner, wondering why he was coming in the morning – he had realized it was morning when the only light in the room was from the door which made Mukuro look even more sinister with the trident in his hands.
Kufufufu… The laugh echoed eerily in the room, making Yamamoto gulp as he curled up tighter. He flinched away as a gloved hand stroked his cheek, though froze at the feeling of the cold point of the trident against his skin. "You're going to be my new vessel," Mukuro explained with a smirk. "A single cut from this trident will give me the ability to possess you. Don't you remember?."
The swordsman stared at him with wide eyes, taking a moment to register that piece of information before understanding what it meant. H-He's going to hurt Tsuna and use me to do it.
sometimes you come
Gokudera stared at the gate of the abandoned Kokuyo Land, still mentally kicking himself for not considering it sooner – Mukuro was after Tsuna, after all, and would use any method to get to him, including the kidnapping and possession of Tsuna's friends.
Having not slept a wink since he had heard about Yamamoto's disappearance, it was no wonder the bomber look as tired as he did, but it didn't show in his movement as he broke in with ease and – when he came across Chikusa a few minutes later in the hallway – his dynamite was out quick his ever. He would admit he was slightly disappointed that he didn't get to blow up the Kokuyo student – who had stepped aside and all but given him directions to where the Rain guardian was - but saving Takeshi was the priority.
ace to face with yourself
v. Saviour
don't you go to turn around
Having finally figured out where the swordsman was being held, Gokudera kicked open the door, not prepared for what was waiting for him on the other side. Lying on the floor, battered and bruised and breathless, Yamamoto Takeshi looked dead. Only the fluttering of eyelids when the bomber called his name confirmed that he was still alive.
As fast as he could, Hayato pulled some nearby clothes onto the other guardian and pulled him to his feet, supporting him as they made their escape.
under the moon and stars
Though free from his cold hearted cell with the visit from a nightmare that never ended, Yamamoto Takeshi never left his room. For two months after being locked in a concrete cell, he confined himself to the safety of his bedroom, locking himself away from the rest of the world. His only relief was in the form of a nightly visitor – this one more welcome than the walking hell he had become well acquainted with.
This visitor was one he wanted. He welcomed the calloused fingers brushing against his skin as they worked to remove bandages and gauze pads and dressings, changing them daily. He welcomed the slow pull of fingers dragging through his hair as he lay on his bed, staring at his wall and thought back on that hell. And, when the occasion called for it, he welcomed the bare chest pressed up against his own back – covered in wounds and the dressings protecting them – on those nights where he managed to drift off to sleep only to relive the trauma that had changed him so much. On those nights especially, he welcomed the soft whispers and brush of lips against the back of his neck;
I'm here, Takeshi. No-one's ever going to hurt you again.
can you find where hides the love
He didn't know how he had even made it through his first day back. Three months had passed since he had last seen those mismatched eyes only inches in front of his face, but it still felt like the demon had barely finished with him. He had only gone because Gokudera had threatened to not come over ever again – they had both known it was a bluff; that Gokudera would never leave him alone like that – and he never left the bomber's side all day. He didn't say a single word to anyone – save for small, muttered pleas to go home whispered to the Italian, which were always answered with an affectionate ruffle of his hair and soft nothings whispered against his back as they stood in each other's arms hidden away in the locker room or an empty music studio or outside in an alley – and no one dared approach him out of fear of Gokudera.
Yamaoto was sure he was sick now. No, he was positive. Anyone who went through what he had, developing severe insomnia thanks to the recurring nightmares and a fear to be touched by everyone –save the person who he had come to call his guardian angel – and still be able to smile – however forced – couldn't not be sick. The echoing ikufufu/i and smirking voice in his head was sure to remind him of that.
Do as I say, Takeshi-kun, and your body will remain yours.
breathing down your neck...