Gokudera doesn't have a specific plan in mind when he steps away from the festival booth and lets himself become part of the crowd. He recognizes his excuse as what it is, formed of vague desire and the shivering adrenaline in his blood, but he doesn't have a solution to his situation in mind. All he knows is that he can't stay still, that the temptation of Yamamoto alone in the distraction of a crowd is too much to let him abandon the opportunity untasted.
He doesn't know where the pitching booth is - he wasn't paying attention to the games around them, unlike the other boy - but it's a small festival, small enough that he can trust to Yamamoto's height to draw his attention away from the unimportant motion of the crowd. Gokudera lets the gentle surge of those around him tug him down the walkway, lets the lights overhead sparkle in his eyes while he glances at the booths, and he's just starting to think maybe he should give this up and head back after all when there's a familiar voice behind him.
"Gokudera!"
Gokudera turns instantly, high-strung hope making his reaction telltale fast. He can feel self-consciousness burn across his face, is bracing himself for a smirk or a laugh or some sort of teasing knowledge in Yamamoto's eyes, but when he glances up there's nothing but sincere pleasure in the other boy's face.
"What are you doing here?" Yamamoto weaves through the crowd like he's part of the current, comes in closer to where the flow is parting around Gokudera's still form before he draws to a halt himself. Gokudera has to tip his chin up to keep his gaze on the other's gold eyes, has to tilt his head far enough back that his hair shifts away from his face. "Weren't you back at the booth with Tsuna?"
"Yeah," Gokudera says. "I needed-" but he doesn't have an answer, doesn't even have an excuse for the moment. His words go still, stall in his throat to leave his mouth open on the absence of sound and his head clear of any thought at all. Yamamoto just watches him, eyes wide and innocent and utterly unsuspicious, as if he's not feeling the awkward tension drawing meaning into the silence.
"Let's go back," Gokudera finally finishes, and that's not an end to his sentence but Yamamoto is still smiling at him like he doesn't hear the lack.
"Okay!" There's no question in his tone, no doubt at all. Gokudera drags his eyes away from Yamamoto's face, cuts close by the other boy as he moves, close enough that his elbow clips the very corner of Yamamoto's wrist. Yamamoto doesn't protest that either, just turns and falls into step just at Gokudera's heels. Gokudera can hear the counterpoint of his footfalls, the soft rush of his breathing as clearly as if the strangers around them didn't exist at all.
He intends to go back to the booth. Whatever natural intuition Yamamoto possesses Gokudera has always lacked; without a plan he is useless, frozen with all his intelligence rendered futile by the too-wide range of possibilities. So he doesn't know why, when their booth is nearly within sight, he takes a sharp left, ducking between two stands and continuing until he's in the deepest shadow to be found anywhere at the festival.
"Ah," comes from behind him, then "Gokudera?" but the footsteps are following him, skipping fast to catch up, and by the time Gokudera comes to a stop and turns Yamamoto is right back at his shoulder, right where he belongs. In the shadows his eyes seem almost black, as endless with possibility as the soft curve of his lips; Gokudera's breathing catches as he looks up at a face made unfamiliar by the fall of shadow across it. Then Yamamoto laughs, his whole face curving warm around the reaction, and the stutter in Gokudera's breathing has nothing to do with unfamiliarity at all. "What's wrong?"
Gokudera is sure it's the lack of concern that decides him. If there were any panic, even the least hint of worry behind Yamamoto's eyes, he would mumble some ill-formed excuse and duck back out to the bright lights of the public. But it's dark where they are, the dim light drawing everything soft with potential, and Yamamoto is looking at him like Gokudera's the only thing in the whole world, and when Gokudera's gaze slides down to the other boy's lips he knows he's lost.
Yamamoto's almost, but not quite, too tall for Gokudera to reach. He still has to step in close, so close his shirt catches at the front of Yamamoto's, so close it's only Yamamoto's disregard for his own personal space that lets the other approach so near. The hand at Yamamoto's neck is harder, the contact pushing Gokudera past the point of no return even before his fingers land against the warm skin just above Yamamoto's collar. But then everything is in place, there's no point excusing anything anymore, and Gokudera tugs at Yamamoto's neck to pull him down as he rises up on his toes to gain the extra inch of height he needs to press his mouth to the other boy's.
Every part of Gokudera's body is straining with nerves. He feels like a tight-wound coil, like the slightest tremor could cause him to snap. He has no idea what to expect, hadn't thought this action through beyond the first impulse of it; if Yamamoto recoils, or hisses surprise, or goes stiff and shocked, Gokudera is sure he'd jerk away, would clap a hand to his mouth and declare they'll never speak of this again. But Yamamoto doesn't recoil, doesn't go taut; he sighs, a tiny mewling noise of satisfaction on his tongue, and he leans in and down to meet Gokudera's mouth, and everything in Gokudera melts into heat at that sound, at that movement. Yamamoto is reaching for his waist like it's perfectly natural, sliding his fingers in under Gokudera's hair like they've done this a thousand times, and Gokudera can't breathe and he can't think and everything is warm and trembling like he's a bell humming with the afterimage of a chime he didn't hear.
It's Yamamoto who tips his head sideways to settle his lips flush to Gokudera's, Yamamoto who pushes the weight of Gokudera's hair back across his neck, but Gokudera is the one to lean in closer, to push himself higher on his toes and drag at Yamamoto's neck to pull him farther down. He can taste buttery sweetness on Yamamoto's lips, can catch the lingering flavor of a festival pastry off his skin, and for the briefest moment he wonders what he tastes like to Yamamoto. Then there's pressure, the gentle slide of a tongue against his lips, and Gokudera is opening his mouth before he thinks, submitting to Yamamoto's silent request before he can identify it as such. Against Gokudera's tongue Yamamoto tastes like summer, like lemonade and sunshine and warm grass tangling together, and Gokudera's heart is pounding in his throat until he is sure Yamamoto can hear it, and neither of them are moving away.
Gokudera doesn't know which of them pulls away first; it feels coordinated, planned, like they both retreat for air on some unspoken cue. His head is spinning, his focus so lost he doesn't realize his eyes are open until he's blinked twice and starts to pay attention to his vision again. Yamamoto looks stunned, shocked and languid with pleasure, and the touch at the back of Gokudera's neck is lingering warm and heavy with intention.
"Uh," Gokudera says. "We."
"Should get back," Yamamoto finishes for him, speaking slowly and carefully as if he doesn't quite remember how to move his mouth. His lips look softer than Gokudera remembers, his touch is warmer than it's ever been before, and when Gokudera starts to flush it has more to do with desire than with embarrassment.
"Yeah," is what he says, but his hand stays where it is, his fingers brushing against the soft ends of Yamamoto's dark hair. Yamamoto is staring at him too, his eyes dreamy and unfocused on Gokudera's mouth even before his fingers trace down so his little finger can hook under the edge of the other boy's shirt.
"We should," Gokudera repeats, but Yamamoto is still watching his mouth, idly touching the shape of his own lower lip with the tip of his tongue, and there's nothing for it but that Gokudera pull him in closer to replace Yamamoto's tongue with his own lips.
It's not until there's the sound of combat, the crackle of fire and the crash of destruction from up the hill, that they are startled apart. There's no time for slow separation - Yamamoto is turning as fast as Gokudera is shouting, and they both sprint up the hill in perfect time with each other without needing to speak. Then there's the distraction of a fight, the pressing urgency of larger concerns than the sugar that clings to the corners of Yamamoto's mouth, and Gokudera loses track of his smaller personal considerations in the bigger picture for a few minutes. It's not until they're all sprawled across the grass, heads tipped back to watch the glow of the fireworks overhead, that Gokudera can let himself feel the slow pulse of warmth in his lips, can let himself linger on the echo of remembered pressure that curves itself into a slow smile in spite of his attempts to control his expression.
They have other concerns, for now. But his mouth is hot with memory, and his mind is sparkling with possibility, and after a moment the almost-casual brush of fingers at his wrist turns his vision as golden as Yamamoto's eyes. Gokudera's intuition is not to be trusted usually, but right now, in this moment, he's willing to believe it when it whispers that everything will be okay.