A/N: Second KHR fic. I'm hoping everything works out all right, without too much cliché and et cetera. Interpret the ending however you like. Rated T for Gokudera.

Feedback is always appreciated.

the art of seeing faces

When you meet the girl you're going to marry, she smiles at you.

You feel like you're going to puke.

Let's start at the beginning, or something like it.

You have wanted to be with – not just some stupid temporary crush, but something stronger, something a lot harder to deal with – that guy for a long time. How long has it been – two years? Five? (You try "since you first saw him" on for size. It sounds about right.)

Pretty soon, that guy is up there along with baseball, sushi, and the Mafia game, and you aren't sure what you're going to do about it. After all, you see him, and while your head is telling you to just smile that huge dumb smile and act like everything's normal, your body…

Well, your body doesn't want to do that.

High school was bad enough with hormones and fan girls and the Mafia, but being around him makes it much, much worse. Even though that guy says he doesn't want to be around you, you can't stop looking, because you can't help seeing the way his hair falls onto his neck and how he gets that weird intense look whenever he's concentrating and the way he follows the Tenth around like a puppy and –

Here's the point: You're in love with Gokudera.

(Here's the other point: Gokudera probablydefinitely doesn't love you back.)

You're twenty, an adult, able to get drunk until you collapse and smoke a pack while you're at it, but not able to say how you feel. (You'll never be able to say how you feel.)

Tsuna left for Italy three days ago, taking half of his guardians with him. You were left in Japan, because Hibari alone would not be a reliable force for the Vongola's interests to depend on, and someone has to make sure that Namimori doesn't end up half-destroyed. Besides, then you can help your dad some. Run errands, take care of the house. That sort of thing.

Gokudera left, of course. He'd never leave the Tenth – he hates Italy, negotiations make him sick, but still he goes, because it's the Tenth. The Tenth is more important than anything. (This is both the best and worst part of him, because you wonder sometimes if he'd ever be capable of watching someone else – you – like he watches Tsuna.)

At four in the morning, Tsuna wakes you up with a call, sounding flustered and anxious when you finally flip open the phone.

"Yamamoto, I realize this is really early, sorry, and I wish I didn't have to call, but something came up in negotiations with the di Nuzzio –"

A sharp gunshot (Reborn?) rings through the tinny speakers, and you hear a minor scuffle before Tsuna's voice sounds again. "Sorry! But, well, we had certain terms to close our agreements, and they wouldn't budge on it, no matter how much I tried to fix things –"

More yelling, and you wish that you could just roll over and go back to sleep, but this is the Mafia, and that'll get you killed someday. Tsuna comes back in bursts – "Ryohei's not an option, and definitely not Hibari either" – "Mukuro would kill us all" – "Gokudera has to stay" – "Lambo's too young" – but his voice is tinny in the speakers, and you can tune him out enough to fall asleep. You're this close to nodding off when, finally, Tsuna's back on the line for good.

"You're engaged to Lucia di Nuzzio –"

You're awake now.

"What?"

"All they'd accept is a marriage between one of my guardians and theirs, and you're the only option. Gokudera said he'd get you, it'll be a couple days, and then we can explain. I'm trying to get you out of it, I am, but it's difficult, I'm so sorry – "

This isn't happening.

Gokudera finds you sitting in front of Namimori Middle School, looking down at the baseball fields from the bleachers.

You smell him before you see him, the distinctive odor of cigarettes and C4 practically a haze. You inhale, as big a breath as you can manage without looking like a freak, because if Tsuna's call means what you think it does, then you've only got a couple chances left, don't you.

Surprisingly, Gokudera doesn't yell at you, or swear, or do any of the multitudes of things that you expect. Instead, he sits down next to you, leaning back against the cold metal, blowing smoke into the summer sky.

You keep yourself facing forward (don't look, don't look), and makes your mouth slide into that easy grin. "So, Italy?"

Gokudera nods, takes another drag. "Our flight leaves in five hours."

"All right."

You see Gokudera turn towards him at the edges of your vision, the other man's eyes narrowed. "How can you say that? You just got – your life has just been decided for you. It's not like you to be all complacent and shit."

Shrugging, you keep your face turned away. If you don't make eye contact, then you won't feel like such a coward, because you shouldn't be accepting this – "Tsuna will work it out."

You expect an outburst – Gokudera's itching to say something, you can tell, because his breathing is getting rapid and he's tapping his fingers in some sort of rhythm on the stands, the little drumming he does when he's anxious and angry and thisclose to blowing up in your face again – but nothing happens.

Instead, what you get is Gokudera standing up to stamp out his cigarette, not facing you, with only a "baseball idiot" tossed behind his shoulders. When you stand, Gokudera's back's already feet away. (You didn't see his face once.)

After an hours-long flight (you keep up your self-imposed rule of not looking, because seeing Gokudera's face will make everything about this ten times harder), you step out into Italy. Someone's waiting, of course, to drive you to wherever you're going, so you have ample time to admire the scenery.

Italy is gorgeous, naturally. You've been here what, five or six times, and each time it's the same blend of blue skies and rolling hills and quaint little houses on cobblestone streets, but it doesn't get old.

The quiet does get old. You always have hated the silence that stretches between the two of you, but it's mostly your own fault. After all, conversations were only ever started on your end.

Tsuna greets you when they reach the headquarters, looking weary in a rumpled suit, but Ryohei soon comes out, and naturally things are much more extreme. After all, Ryohei thinks that jet lag is nothing more than a myth, and certainly doesn't accept it as grounds to decline a sparring match. It takes Tsuna's intervention – "Ah, I need to talk to Yamamoto" – for the three of you to escape the Sun Guardian.

In the dining room, where you're presented with six different kinds of coffee, Tsuna lays out the problem for you (and Gokudera, but he's not even listening, so it doesn't count).

Apparently, there was a whole contract, with fancy language and everything. Tsuna swore that they could probably break the engagement if given time or the proper kind of bribe, but results aren't certain. Besides, the di Nuzzio insisted on some sort of alliance, and while there was a whole bunch of political junk, the whole thing was mostly so they could have one of the Tenth's guardians in their hands in case something goes badly.

When you're given the photo of your fiancée, you study it for a few seconds. Dark hair, tan skin, probably a crazy Mafioso like the rest of her family, but still, she looks nice enough. She's got a pretty smile.

Tsuna leaves you with the photograph and profile, deciding that it would be best to let you be for a time. The door shuts, and all you can hear is Gokudera, striking up a cigarette.

You can feel a word on the tip of your tongue – you're going to break your rule, but you have to say something – but Gokudera's already slamming the door when you look up.

There is a very fancy engagement party being held that night. You risk walking to Gokudera's room – you've never learned how to tie a tie, because every time you wear a suit, it means that Gokudera's touching you, looking at you, close enough for you to hear his heartbeat – and are greeted with Gokudera's irritated face.

"What."

The careless grin that you've perfected slides into sheepish as you hold up your tie. "Some help?"

Gokudera grumbles something under his breath, but lets you into the room. Everything is messy, all covered in clothes and sheet music, with ashtrays littered every few feet. When you enter, you pick your way over scattered shoes and CDs alike to where Gokudera is waiting.

"Here."

It always looks so simple when he does it – a few twists, a yank, and ta-da. Magic. This time, you stare at a point three feet above Gokudera's head, trying to force your heart rate down back into the range where it isn't suspiciously high. You try to think about innocent things – baseball, will they have sushi, will she like sushi? No, she's an Italian, they're into cooked fish – when you realize that Gokudera has said something.

"What?"

"Nothing." He looks back down again, and you realize he's had to have done up your tie at least three times – but that's not right, because Gokudera is a master at this. He must be nervous about protecting Tsuna or something, for him to mess up this much.

"What do you mean, nothing? Is something wrong?"

"Look, idiot, when I say nothing, I mean it. Now fuck off." He jerks the tie a little too tight, shoves his hands on your chest and physically pushes you out of his room before you can keep asking questions.

And the worst part is, you let him.

The party is in full swing, feet stepping across parquet floors and wine glasses being swirled as you hear Italian being tossed from mouth to mouth, the sharp consonants cutting through the air. You spot Gokudera near the Tenth, who is conversing with another Mafia boss in a suit, his cigar stinking up the air despite Tsuna's obvious displeasure. All around you are people laughing and joking, smiling and drinking too much while carefully concealing their instruments of instant death with laughter and glitteringly expensive clothing.

You decide that the best course of action is to get drunk and forget this is happening. The open bar looks nice enough.

After you get the bartender to give you sake, you down it quickly – not how you're supposed to, but you want the buzz before you meet the girl you're supposed to bind yourself to.

"Ah, excuse me."

You thought you'd been careful to look like you were supposed to be alone and getting too hungover to remember anything in the next three hours, but apparently you weren't careful enough. Glancing up, you see dark hair and a pretty smile.

(This is the girl you're going to marry.)

You feel like you're going to puke.

"I don't want this, you know?"

After exchanging awkward introductions, Lucia di Nuzzio – who speaks surprisingly good Japanese – has decided to join you in your quest to get drunk on whatever alcohol the Vongola has to offer, and the two of you have begun to watch everyone else while downing sake and wine. The two of you may even turn into friends over the mutual affection for the cleansing power of hangovers.

"Aa." You signal the bartender over, grab some more liquid anesthesia – not enough to make you do anything stupid, but enough to drown out the rest of the world for a while.

"I mean, you seem like a nice enough person, but, well, it wouldn't work for us."

"How so?" It's just a courtesy, really. You know why things wouldn't work, but you want to see her reasoning, see if your own inhibitions are justified. Besides, it keeps you from staring at the light glinting off of silver hair.

"I don't think I'd ever love you, see. There's… there's someone else." You watch her eyes dart to the left, and you follow the line of vision that ends on a dark-haired man, talking quietly to Ryohei, who gestures at him with enthusiasm. When he looks up, he waves at her, before nodding curtly to you.

"Ah. I understand."

"You – you are not insulted?" She glances at you while her eyes get wide with alcohol or surprise – you aren't sure which.

"No." (Don't look, don't look.) "Would it bother you if I was the same way?"

"The same… ah. I understand." She looks at you, her eyes sharp again, and when you break your rule and look, she follows your gaze.

"Is it that one?"

"Hm?" You fake ignorance, but it doesn't work, because Lucia di Nuzzio seems to be a perceptive drunk.

"The one with the silver hair. He's quite pretty, though I hear there's a nasty temper…"

When she trails off, you pick up the thread without thinking (sake does tend to do that). "He's not that bad."

In response, she nods, tapping her nose with a forefinger and looking into her glass of wine. When she leans across you, dark hair sweeping over your face, you can smell the drink on her breath as she whispers in your ear.

"I wouldn't mind. After all, he's been watching you all night."

That night, when you're not quite drunk enough to do something regrettable with almost no trouble to your conscience, but close enough, you go to his room and stand in front of the door. Lucia had told you many times over, her speech becoming more and more slurred with every repetition, that you might as well, and that there was no time like the present, with it's happy haze of forgetful amnesia.

Of course, when you are actually looking at the door, staring it down while wrapping your head around knocking so you can finally get some closure (because God knows you need it), the temporary courage fails you. You can't do this. You can't say anything, can't look, because you'll never be able to say how you feel –

But you may never have another chance.

You knock.

Gokudera pulls open the door, looking tired and grumpy with his tie undone and his shirt halfway to being unbuttoned. He's frightening and beautiful all at once, and the way your heart beats faster when you look at him scares you, just a little. You realize, right then, that you haven't actually looked at him, at his moods and his anger and irritation and sometimes his happiness, for days.

In response, you stumble over the doorframe – might as well make him think you're too drunk to be serious – falling onto him, feeling his pulse as it throbs next to your ear and how cold his skin is. It's not long before he drags you onto a chair, forces you down as your trademark easy grin slides onto your face – and it's just so easy to act like you're joking, like nothing's serious, even though that's further from the truth than anything else you could say.

"What the fuck are you doing in here, Yamamoto?"

"Came to see you." You laugh a little, feeling it rise in your throat before you start to choke on it, and really, how is this funny – "I want to talk to you."

Gokudera mutters, dragging his hands through his hair and looking off at something in the window. When you turn to see it, all you see are tiny pinpricks of lights dancing through the hills and the air. They cast tiny beams across his face, and you find yourself looking at them instead, watching the dots of light highlight his eyes.

You've missed looking at his face.

"Well?" Gokudera pulls out his pack of cigarettes, striking up and refusing to look you in the eye as he does so. "Spit it out."

You bite your lip, close your eyes. You've always hated moments of truth, and this one has decided to smack you in the face. However, it has to be now, doesn't it, with the last of the alcohol and your heart pounding some sort of tempo against your eyelids. There are no second chances.

"You know how you asked me how I could be complacent about this?" Your eyes stay closed, and you don't wait for a response, rushing onwards while your fingers flutter against your legs. "Well, if you want to know how I really feel about this, now's the time, huh? I mean, I guess I should let you know." You draw in a shaky breath. It's never been so hard, breathing – never like this, with the weight on your chest constricting lungs and stopping air.

"I'm totally not sure how to do this, but here goes." You keep your eyes closed, try to still your fingers. "I – " Pause, stop, breath. Try again. "I just – I'm in love. With you."

This is the part where you open your eyes.

What you find is Gokudera, turned away from you, his hands tugging at his shirt. Something twists in your stomach – he doesn't believe you, he's going to kill you, he'll laugh and freak out and not say anything at all – and God, it hurts to breath, hurts to look, and the silence is killing you because nothing is happening. So you do the only thing you can think of, and close the gap.

It's everything you've thought of, while you've watched him and wanted him. Soft lips, soft hair, his breath hot against your mouth and your heartbeat thudding in your ears. What you weren't expecting was him kissing back, tangling long pianist fingers in your shirt and around your neck, whispering against your skin and calling you an idiot and pulling you into him.

(You may never have this again.)

Later, when you have hands and limbs tangled together, you watch the pinpricks of light move across his face. (Its then, when you've allowed yourself to look at him, that you realize that he's finally turned to face you.)

FIN

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