Title: Eye of the Storm
Author: Nagi Kokuyo
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters: Yamamoto, Gokudera
Pairings: 8059
Rating: High T
Warnings: Mild spoilers, homosexuality (meaning boy x boy love, people), mild language, innuendos and mentions of sex
Disclaimer: As much as I wish it was different, I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!, nor any of its characters, and I'm not making any profit out of this (Puh-leeze, I wish!)
Summary: Gokudera wakes up the night after Tsuna's 16th b-day party with a hangover and realizes he slept with a certain Rain Guardian…who wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Will he accept that Yamamoto loves him, or will this shatter any chances for a relationship? Prequel to "One Without the Other." 8059
A/N: Please review! Tell me what you think, but no flames please! This is a partner fic to my KHR stories "Silver Lining," "One Without the Other," and "Inside the Tempest," though reading the others isn't necessary. Also, please shoot me now for the clichéd excuse for fluff that is to come. It was almost painful to write, but I think it's sweet. Still…shoot me now. It will be less painful later.
Light seeped in under the curtains of the bedroom's only window, spilling over the carpet. The dim sunlight was muted by the heavy, thick layer of clouds outside, leaving it just bright enough to tell the people of Namimori that it was morning. The light outlined the figure in the bed, alone among the messy sheets.
Other than the clothes strewn across the floor erratically, the room was in perfect, almost OCD, order: books and CDs were stuffed into the bookshelf to the point of bursting, all in alphabetical order by genre and series; the clothes in the closet were organized by season, type, and color; shoes lined up in rows. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place; it was the same with the rest of the small flat. The color scheme was black and white throughout the small living room, kitchen, and bathroom.
The young man lying amidst the messy bed was buck-naked and only partially covered by the black bed sheets. Gokudera Hayato noticed three things when he woke up: one, he had the mother of all headaches; two, his memories of the previous night were blurry and indistinct; and three, there was a deep, throbbing pain in his ass that informed him that he would not be walking straight for quite some time. His muscles ached, his throat was dry as the Sahara Desert and on fire, his tongue felt fuzzy in his mouth, and he desired nothing more than to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, as he snuggled back into his pillow and willed himself to fall back into Dreamland, Morpheus dropkicked his butt back into the world of the living.
Groaned, he forced his eyes open and immediately regretted it; it felt like there were a thousand poison-tipped needles being stabbed into his brain, and the hammer behind his eyes intensified tenfold. He yelped in a very un-Gokudera-like manner. Oh fuckin' perfect; a hangover. By hook or by crook, at the Tenth's sixteenth birthday party last night, he'd gotten drunk; somehow, he had the nagging feeling that the Bucking Bronco had something to do with it. He threw an arm over his eyes, but the damage was done.
The clock on the nightstand informed him in harsh, glowing green digits that it was eight forty-five in the morning. Still sleepy and not yet completely awake, Gokudera forced himself to get out of bed. Lightning bolts of pain shot up his back and down his legs when he stood, radiating out from his rear end. If the pain was any indication, whatever he'd drank last night had been far from un-alcoholic and had somehow led to a night of debauchery.
As he limped down the hall to the bathroom, he searched his mind for any clues. Everything seemed to have bled together in a long, alcohol-laden haze. His memory was sketchy, the night before a fuzzy memory of two bodies mingled together, becoming one. He distantly heard sounds coming from the kitchen—dishes clinking together, the microwave beeping, muffled swearing—but he couldn't identify the voice.
There was his jacket, lying on the floor in the hall. He'd passed his T-shirt and jewelry outside his bedroom door; his pants and boxers were on the floor from his door to his bed. His head throbbed like mad and his mouth tasted like Tsuna's chocolate cake, cigarettes, beer, and…sushi? Whatever had happened was lost until it wanted to show itself again, and he suspected that he wouldn't make any progress by picking.
He staggered into the tiny bathroom and braced himself against the counter with both hands, leaning on it heavily. A surge of nausea and vertigo swelled over him, and he swallowed the urge to vomit, unsuccessfully; he just barely got the toilet seat up before he was on his knees, emptying his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He heaved, emptying his stomach of cake, pizza, chips, and whatever else he'd consumed the night before. He groaned and puked again, body trembling. The stench of vomit filled his nose, and he spat out a glob of phlegm. A few minutes later, there was nothing left for him to throw up and he was only dry heaving; his stomach was empty but his body refused to stop. Finally, the heaving dispersed and his muscles stopped cramping and started to relax. He leaned back against the wall, spitting residue out of his mouth.
Wincing, he stood up and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like crap—his hair was a rat's nest, there were dark, bruise-like smudges under his eyes that made him look vaguely like a tired panda, and…was he paler than usual? He retrieved a container of analgesics from the cabinet and downed about twice the recommended amount before starting the shower. The scalding hot water, like he usually took, would probably just aggravate the hangover, so he made sure the water was only lukewarm before he stepped under it.
He let the water run over him, soothing his aching muscles and his hangover, and washing away the last of his fatigue. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, grimacing as his joints popped; just what had they done last night anyway? That train of thought brought up a truckload of questions that his sleep-addled mind had decided were too stressful for the newly-awakened. The first and foremost—and by far the most important—was how was he going to face Yamamoto?
How had it started? Who had started it? Most of it was just a blurred memory of their two bodies moving together, limbs tangling and tongues dancing, the sound of skin slapping against skin. All the things that had happened last night, what would they amount to? As he tried desperately to remember the facts, he found a shred of clarity beneath the fuzzy memories of them having sex.
Gokudera stumbled, his foot catching on an uneven patch of sidewalk, and he would have faceplanted into the hard cement had Yamamoto not reached out and grabbed his arm. The baseball fanatic pulled Gokudera upright, and the momentum sent Gokudera tumbling into Yamamoto's arms, his face pressed against the taller boy's neck. Yamamoto laughed, helping Gokudera steady himself, and kissed him soundly on the mouth, cupping his face in one hand. Gokudera moaned and kissed back, his hands burying themselves in the short dark hair and eyes fluttering shut. Tongues battled for dominance as they stood there on the sidewalk, trying to devour each other. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring, Yamamoto slipped his other hand up Gokudera's shirt, splaying his fingers across the well-toned stomach. Gokudera shuddered as Yamamoto's warm, calloused hand made contact with cold flesh, and Yamamoto took the opportunity to nip the pianist's lower lip, eliciting a gasp and a sharp tug of his hair. The baseball idiot smirked and slid his hand up Gokudera's chest, tweaking a nipple and rolling it between his fingers, bringing it to hardness, his mouth never leaving Gokudera's.
When he stepped out a few minutes later, he was feeling a bit better—the pills had managed to chase away the bulk of his headache, and the shower had alleviated the dull, throbbing pain in his muscles. With his hair dripping water down his bare chest and only a towel around his waist, Gokudera stepped out of the bathroom and hurried back to his room to get dressed; there was no frikkin way he was going to face the yakubaka half-naked, especially after the night of debauchery they'd just had! Drying his hair mostly unsuccessfully with a damp towel, Gokudera hastily threw on a clean pair of boxers, and then the first pair of jeans and the first clean T-shirt he could grab. He pulled his hair back in a short ponytail, took a deep breath, and steeled himself for the confrontation.
He could take the easy way out, and boy, was he sorely tempted to; he could throw his bombs and yell at the top of his lungs and curse Yamamoto Takeshi into next week. But he knew that if he took that route, the yakubaka would only laugh and chide him lightheartedly for "playing with fireworks indoors."
Besides, he really was quite fond of his apartment.
Nothing about the idiot would have changed overnight. He always saw the good in people, and either ignored and couldn't comprehend the bad, and unwisely trusted everyone with little to no reason. He was warm and foolishly friendly to anyone and everyone. He was still the naïve, blind, hopeless idiot obsessed with baseball he had been two days ago, two weeks, two months. In summary, he was everything Gokudera Hayato was not.
Gokudera knew that he would never be able to look at the baseball idiot the same way ever again, not after what happened. Yamamoto had so easily broken through his defenses, something only the Boss had been able to do, though how he'd managed to do that, Gokudera didn't know. In his drunken state, Gokudera had probably let his guard down, and as usual, the baseball idiot had gone bumbling in where he wasn't wanted. What was even worse, Gokudera hadn't only let down his guard, he'd allowed the stupid baseball idiot to top him. He'd allowed Yamamoto to take him, to dominate him in the most intimate way. He would acknowledge, secretly, in his own head only, that Yamamoto Takeshi had taken him to the very peak of pleasure and pushed him over the edge; he had made Gokudera scream and writhe under him, calling his name as he arched up against him and tumbled over the edge of pleasure into the abyss of ecstasy and passion.
Could his pride accept that?
What the fuck? Gokudera shook his head and scolded himself, trying very hard to ignore the heat in his cheeks. What was he doing, worrying himself like that? It was just the stupid yakubaka; there was nothing to be nervous about.
So why did he feel like some ditsy, dizzy schoolgirl with her first crush?
Second part to come soon!
~Nagi