Notes: A lot of metaphors and other pretentious crap. Drop me a review, anyway, please?
After their first night together, Yamamoto believed himself to be the luckiest guy on earth. This is it, he thought.
But it wasn't.
No matter what he tried, Gokudera remained the same: smooth, calculated, bottled.
Yamamoto learned this the hard way.
Gokudera is like a glass chest, locked up with the tightest chains in the world. You can see inside, watch his innermost thoughts uncurl like smoke, but you can't ever touch them, capture them, keep them.
Yamamoto stares at Gokudera's back, bare and scarred, as he puffs out smoke through the open window into the rain, and wonders how much time they have left.
Knowing Gokudera, it won't take long.
Gokudera is wild by design.
The way he thrashes out during sex, his explosive fighting techniques, the torn jeans and offensive t-shirts, the tattoos and piercings. There is something remarkably deliberate about it, forced even, but Yamamoto doesn't think anybody notices.
Probably not even Gokudera himself.
Gokudera is dark in a synthetic sort of way.
In this man-made darkness he clings to Tsuna, like a planet gravitates around a sun.
It's just who he is; too afraid to claim his own piece of heaven and shine on his own.
So Yamamoto joins Gokudera's orbit as his moon, starts buying all the stars he can and gives them all to Gokudera. But nothing can ever outshine Tsuna. Not in Gokudera's eyes, anyway.
Gokudera is counting.
Numbers. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Months. Years. Losses. Victories. Ties. Enemies. Competitors. Opportunities. Lives. Deaths.
Gokudera is counting, and Yamamoto is falling over him all over again.