.

from the nightclub
to the bedroom floor:

I never felt quite like this before,

it's your eyes that I really adore;
if I say any more, if I say any more—

if I say any more I might just fall in lo—

.

Their apartment has always been – at first glance and despite the amount of funds at their disposal – easily identifiable as the home of two twenty-something guys: clothes forever strewn on the lone couch, a mountain of shoes posing a severe trip hazard in the entryway, and a pile of dishes to one side of the sink.

That was where Gokudera was one morning, standing over the stainless steel tub – he wore a simple white kerchief to hold back his hair and a pair of bright pink rubber gloves, looking for all the world like a disgruntled wife. "Hey, baseball idiot!" he yelled none-too-kindly, leaning back to project his voice down the hall. "You didn't rinse out your cup last night and now there's chocolate syrup goop stuck to the bottom! This is the third time this week, and it's only Tuesday!" With that, he shook a dirty ladle like a weapon in the general direction of his roommate, "I refuse to wash your disgusting dishes!"

There was the muted thump of feet hitting the floor from the next room, and Yamamoto emerged a second later, unperturbed and still in his pajamas. His hair stuck up in all the wrong places, and he lifted one hand to cover a yawn as the other reached beneath the hem of his t-shirt to absentmindedly scratch at his stomach. "Relax, Gokudera, let me get it. It won't happen again–"

"That's what you always say!" the silver-haired man exploded, tossing the ladle back in the sink and beginning to wash vigorously, as if the dishes themselves had offended him, inanimate though they were. "You always say that, but then nothing ever actually changes!" he fumed, suds splashing over the side of the sink to collect in a puddle on the dark gray linoleum.

A minute passed silently, the scent of coffee and dish soap hanging in the air. Yamamoto was not yet awake enough to respond to the shorter man's tirade, and he figured this squall of Gokudera's would blow over as they most often did. So he pulled out a box of cereal and retrieved the milk, setting both on the table. But when he reached over to grab a bowl from the cupboard, he did not miss the disgruntled whisper of, "Maybe one of us should move out."

The cupboard door swung shut, Yamamoto's hand still in midair. "What?"

"I said, maybe one of us should move out." Gokudera's voice had gone even softer, and all dishwashing had ceased, leaving them in an uncomfortable lull. Eventually, he turned to look away – at the coffee pot, at the wall, anywhere but Yamamoto.

The dark-haired man's face was tinged with surprise, and he angled his head to get a better look at Gokudera. "Are you serious?"

There was no response, so he tried again, brows furrowing as he attempted to understand. "Gokudera, are you this upset about a cup?"

At that, the storm guardian whirled back around, face incredulous. "It's not just the cup! It's so much more than the cup!" He removed the gloves and kerchief, tossing them on the counter as he gestured. "It's you! Your stuff is everywhere, you are everywhere! I can't get away from you, and I'm sick of you constantly treating me like I'm… like I'm your personal maid or something!"

He ran a hand through his hair, "Well, I'm not, okay?! We've been living together for almost a year, and I can't deal with it anymore. You're always around, hovering, and invading my space with your stuff or your presence or even your smell!" There was a beat of silence, and then he concluded softly, "It's too much. Maybe living together wasn't such a good idea after all… It's just not working out."

Yamamoto did not move, wide brown eyes trained on the other man as he tried to find the words to deny it or apologize or just somehow make things better.

But they were too slow in coming, because before he could say anything, Gokudera pushed past him to the door, muttering, "I need a smoke."

And he was still standing there when the door slammed shut, Gokudera only an afterimage – fleeting snapshot of silver and black and haunting green eyes – burned into his mind.


Gokudera was finishing his fifth cigarette by the time he calmed down; a collection of the discarded butts at his feet was joined by the current one as he ground it into the pavement beneath his heel.

He had not gone far, just to the alley behind their apartment building – just enough space to get away without feeling like he was running away. Because he wasn't, he told himself as he shook another cigarette from the pack, there was nothing to run from.

Except that there was, and he had pretty explicitly told Yamamoto that is was indeed him.

Not for the first time, Gokudera cursed his explosive temper. One hand went to dig in his pocket, and finding his lighter, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling slowly and leaning back against the brick wall.

For all the years they'd known each other, Yamamoto had both irritated and fascinated him, and that was still the case, maybe even to a greater degree. What had taken Gokudera by surprise was the way things had changed since they had moved in together. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea, but as time passed, what he had always hesitantly dubbed a close friendship – which he would never admit aloud, of course – had gradually turned into something… else. He began noticing things, things that someone who was not just a friend would notice, and it absolutely petrified him.

It was the way Yamamoto would do exactly what he had that morning – come into the kitchen with bare feet and bedhead and yet somehow be so captivating; the way Gokudera felt his pervasive presence when he had used the shower just prior to him – steam still in the air and the overpowering scent of fresh and clean and Yamamoto invading his senses until he ended up leaning against the tiled wall, inhaling it like a drug. And worst of all, it was the way Yamamoto would smile at him, that grin that seemed to say that he was the happiest person in the world, and that it was Gokudera who had made him feel that way.

It was beautiful torture of the worst sort because Gokudera knew it could not be true. He had no delusions about himself – he knew he was over-defensive and over-sensitive and a slew of other things that were no doubt a pain to deal with. And while Yamamoto usually did not let on as to his intelligence or intuition, he knew there was no way the other man could be oblivious; it stung to realize that the rain guardian was simply pretending to be unaware to spare Gokudera's pathetic feelings.

The thought made him feel nauseated, and he put out his cigarette with a vicious stamp of his boot. He needed space. He needed time. And he absolutely needed get his head together.

So he pulled out his phone, rings clicking together as he dialed the number of one person who he knew would help, praying they would answer. As he listened to it ring, he told himself that he was not running away, he was just going to clear his thoughts, get some perspective.

There was the click of the call being picked up, and a sleepy voice on the other end said, "Mm… morning, Gokudera. What's up?"

"Tenth," he replied, a note of relief in his voice. "I need a favor."


A/N: Hi there! Not sure if the KHR! fandom (or 8059 shippers) is/are still alive out there somewhere, but this idea popped in my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it out.

I'm not sure exactly how long this is going to be, but it will be at least 3-4 parts, with each part being between 1,000 and 2,000 words :)

Hope someone out there enjoys!

[And if you find any errors, please let me know, since I don't have a beta! Thank you!]