It had become a habit since they first moved to Italy almost a year ago after Tsuna's succession. This, whatever it was. Closeness.

His breath was hot on the back of his neck as Yamamoto pressed close. His chest rose and fell easily, in steady rhythm with his heart that Gokudera could feel against his spine. Skin against skin was almost stifling, but Italian summer was too warm for much clothing worn to bed.

He was lonely, he had claimed. Gokudera could understand why. People knew who he was in Namimori. He had been there his whole life, had memorized streets and faces. Italy was a place where people moved about in their own circles from place to place with little care for strangers. Gokudera knew that better than anyone.

"Just learn Italian," he had told him once, but Yamamoto only laughed and hugged him tighter.

Neither of them really belonged here. Half-bred son who spent more time blowing up relationships then bothering to make them and a Japanese man whose worth lay with whatever instrument he held in his hands. Maybe that was why he didn't mind Yamamoto's puppy-like need for affection, even if it only was sharing a bed when they were around each other and occasional kisses and fucks in the dark.

He didn't mind this habit.