Written just for the hell of it.
Furious doesn't begin to describe Gokudera's mood as he watches Yamamoto sleep, dark hair, dark circles under his eyes, and whitewhitewhite bandages around his arms, his stomach, and his head. He's fucking livid, and it took the Tenth's calm, soft pleas with the doctors to let him in, and it was the threat of Gokudera losing his temper that kept him there, unbothered by the nurses who flitted in on their prim white shoes, and then flicked back out, closing the door behind them.
Distantly, he toys with the idea of what he's going to do to the swordsman when he wakes up. Multiple things float through his mind in the three days he spends in the hospital. One part of him wants to kill him (that bullet was meant for me you selfish bastard, not you), another part wants to hit him (stupid selfless idiot, what were you thinking), and the rest of him just wants to blow the rest of the world up so it never fucking happens again (Tenth would be fucking inconsolable if you died, so don't you dare).
When Yamamoto does wake up, however, Gokudera just presses the call button, and lets the professionals do their job, while Yamamoto gives them all a sleepy, strained smile, clearly still so drugged up that he probably won't remember a godsdamned thing.
Gokudera stays with him that night, only, instead of the hospital bed, Yamamoto's flat on his back in Gokudera's, since the man had a huge bed, far softer than the not-so-picky baseball player's. He hadn't minded, not when it gives him an excuse to watch over the idiot. They're left alone after the Tenth hugs Yamamoto as gingerly as he can, and then Gokudera as well, sliding out of the room and closing the door with a soft click.
"I should kill you," Gokudera growls, climbing up onto the bed, not surprised when Yamamoto just smiles at him, dragging him closer with a slight tug to his hands. He ends up straddling Yamamoto's waist, braced above him, lips just a hair away. "Tenth was a fucking mess because of you."
Yamamoto exhales quietly, and attempts a smile. "But you're both both okay," he says, and resists the urge to point out that Gokudera's eyes look rather pretty painted in the soft light of the moon, and his own anger. He really doesn't have a death-wish, no matter what people think. So instead of all that, he just sighs a little, and says, "M'kinda sore."
Gokudera lets out a noise, a cross between a groan and a growl, and shoves their lips together, sloppy and messy and rough, lacking any inch of finesse. Yamamoto doesn't mind exactly, and, exactly means not really, not at all, because kissing Gokudera is like walking through a mine-field, all exhilaration and fear and this is really awesome if it doesn't kill me.
"Fucker," Gokudera rasps into the kiss, somewhere around the time the two of them start grinding their hips together like they're a couple of fucking teenagers, those sloppy kisses continuing. "You fucker."
Yamamoto says nothing, just spreads his legs a little and hums when Gokudera shoves a hand down his pants and jerks him off, dry and rough and a little too much friction but so good and--
--and Gokudera somehow manages to get naked through all that, then works on getting Yamamoto naked for good measure. "Don't you ever," Gokudera snarls, and his eyelashes flutter as Yamamoto listens and takes two fingers into his mouth, sucking and nipping lightly, distracting him. "Don't you ever--!" He stops again, jerking his fingers out, rings slick and still cool, and shoves a finger into Yamamoto, then two, then three, and it fucking aches, not so much in a good way anymore, because he's sore and stiff and exhausted, but it's Gokudera and the promise of sex with Gokudera is always good and okay.
One hand fixes itself to Yamamoto's throat, squeezes, bears down and stops that strangled little cry that would have escaped had his hand not been there when he'd thrust in. "Don't you ever make him cry, again," Gokudera snarls, and fucks him like it's punishment and redemption all in one, a hand clenched tight at his throat, the other hand fisting Yamamoto with a lotion-slick palm and that really doesn't seem fair at all.
Gokudera comes first, hips jerking and breath hitching and stuttering with a desperate a-ah, ah, ahfuckYamamoto--! and then he's sliding out and down and grazing teeth over his balls, lapping up his own come like it doesn't fucking matter that his mouth doesn't go down there. Yamamoto just whines, jerks when two big hands slide up his thighs, cold rings offsetting how ohohoh-! hot Gokudera's mouth is, tongue flicking and tasting and touching in all the right places. Yamamoto comes with a sigh, and slumps against the covers with a shiver, eyes just slits now while Gokudera sits up and then drags the covers over them, exhausted and sore. "I won't," Yamamoto promises, and Gokudera just nods, promising that he'll hold him to it.
Omnomnom Gokudera/Yamamoto.