A/N: Uh. Hey guys. Wassup. There's a few things I should point out here. First, there used to be a totally random Naruto reference somewhere later on in this text. It didn't make sense AT ALL unless you had read my very first fanfic called Happy Birthday, Gaara (suck title, I know)--which is not on FF so don't bother looking--and only three of my friends have read it. Er. Yeah. Nearly all of the fanfics stored on my laptop are linked to each other, so there's a whole bunch of X-overs that make different scenes coincide with each other and stuff. This is one of them, but I removed the X-over scene so you can just focus on the YamaGoku love.

Second, you should know that this may be incredibly OOC and mildly nonsensical. On one hand, there's bitchy!Gokudera who's playing a little too hard-to-get. On the other hand, there's angsty!Yamamoto who's being very emo. Hibari's being philosophical, Chrome just appears out of nowhere, and Dr. Shamal... Ugh, don't even go there. About half of this stuff I made up for the heck of it. So I'm sorry if I disappoint you along the way.

And third, I OWN NOTHING...

Rated T for a reason, folks. Language, alcohol, implied sex, crappy plotline...

8059 fans, onward! :D

Talk to Me

-x-

"Yo, Gokkun!"

Yamamoto sidles up beside Gokudera with a revoltingly stupid grin, his dark golden eyes shining with a joyful luster that makes the silver-haired teen bristle because he just can't understand how happy Yamamoto can be all the time, how incredibly oblivious he is to everything around him.

"Shut up, you baseball idiot."

It is a practiced answer, one that habitually finds itself on Gokudera's lips no matter the circumstances.

Yamamoto makes no indication that he hears the youth's snappy reply, only smiles wider and sits down in the chair next to him.

"What are you doing?"

"None of your business," Gokudera growls.

Yamamoto is silent for a while, which surprises Gokudera. His cheery expression remains blissfully unchangeable as he watches Gokudera flip through his papers. He watches him tap the eraser end of his pencil on his bottom lip, watches him bite at the skin there and turn the spot flushed and raw.

Gokudera's glasses are slipping off the bridge of his nose in an amusingly scandalous way, strands of metallic hair sliding out of his ponytail and falling in appealing wispy locks on the artful curve of his cheek. His eyebrows are stormy, as usual, but beginning to relax in the soundless quiet, his emerald irises losing some of their edginess. His face is angular, his moonlit skin drawn attractively tight. His lashes dip over his intense gaze, almost shuttering them.

Then he reaches for a pack of cigarettes.

Before he knows what he's doing, Yamamoto's hand is on Gokudera's. He barely has time to register how thin and bony the pianist's fingers are, how cool his skin is, or how delicate his wrist seems beneath the excessive jewelry he adorns when Gokudera whips his arm back, glaring.

"What the fuck?" he demands angrily, but he doesn't know why he's mad.

Yamamoto is incapable of speech for once, amazed at himself. He runs his hand--the same hand he used to stop Gokudera--through his raven hair several times, making it stick up in a way that would have been funny if not for the sudden tension in the atmosphere. His face is apologetic and puzzled, wondering at the tingling sensation in his fingertips. His naivety is perfect, Gokudera thinks, irritated. Faultless.

Yamamoto realizes the silence is growing strangled and uncomfortable and he hurries to break it.

"You shouldn't smoke," he blurts out in a halting rush that makes no sense as soon as he's said it, because Gokudera already knows he shouldn't smoke. He knows the consequences and he knows the reasons and he's still going to do it anyway.

Sure enough, Gokudera responds with an expected "bullshit", and grabs the pack from his desk, flipping out a cigarette and lighting it. It takes a few flicks from his emblazoned lighter until the flame takes and by then his actions are purely defiant. He places the cancer stick to his mouth and sucks in, breathing out rancid smoke in Yamamoto's general direction.

This is a challenge, Yamamoto reflects abruptly.

Gokudera gazes at him with half-lidded eyes, the smoke wafting past his porcelain lips. The scene is ridiculously contradicting, which really is Gokudera's intention.

Yamamoto is fast; the cigarette doesn't have time to hit the floor before his mouth crashes against Gokudera's own, their lips melding together in a distorted synchronization. Gokudera makes the mistake of opening his mouth to protest. Yamamoto's tongue delves forward without hesitation, licking up the remnants of cigarette smoke and coffee and maybe, just maybe, an underlying aroma that is Gokudera in total essence. It is addicting.

Somehow, in the struggle, Gokudera has the sense to stomp out the cigarette with the toe of his foot.

Yamamoto's fingers get entangled in Gokudera's hair, his calluses catching on silky locks as he awkwardly threads his hand through them, moving ahead with the urgency of youth. The rubber band loosens and is flung somewhere. The glasses are tugged off. Gokudera resolves to fight back using tooth and nail, both of the latter being quite literal. He is on the verge of winning the heated battle until Yamamoto forcefully pushes the teen's head back, taking full control, and then Gokudera is falling, falling, gone.

Yamamoto retreats to his side of the desk, his breathing heavy. "Don't smoke," he murmurs, intoxicated.

Gokudera's hand fists in the collar of Yamamoto's shirt and he drags him close roughly. His warring eyes are glazed over, his chest lifting and sinking in an irregular pattern. He is utterly, painfully arousing and Yamamoto finds he honestly doesn't care that the precarious angle he's in is wrenching his spine into a most physically uncomfortable position.

"Finish what you started, moron," Gokudera snarls, his voice raspy and husky and terrifyingly irresistible.

Yamamoto obligingly climbs over the desk to kiss him, but misses his aim and ends up with his lips on Gokudera's neck, which really isn't too bad, he decides, as he feels the erratic fluttering of his pulse beneath his mouth and drinks in the roiling danger shooting through their blood.

His legs are straddling Gokudera's hips now, and they are devouring each other with a sudden raging passion that is completely incomprehensible. Yamamoto's arms snake around a slim waist, bringing their shaking bodies together.

"You're so skinny," he mutters vaguely against Gokudera's jaw line.

"Shut up--"

Gokudera freezes as Yamamoto's fingers travel lower, his hands resting somewhat vigilantly on his ass. He swears he can hear the bastard smirk next to his ear. Not to be outdone, Gokudera teases his palms under the taller teen's shirt and brushes the sides of Yamamoto's warm stomach. He is slightly taken aback at how lean and muscled he is. Yamamoto--the idiot--smiles at him, no doubt guessing his thoughts, but it is such a reckless smile that Gokudera has trouble creating a nasty retort that can wipe the annoying grin off his optimistic face.

So instead, Gokudera opts to bite him.

Yamamoto goes rigid and Gokudera almost laughs. He squeezes his teeth tighter on Yamamoto's shoulder and the boy stiffens, a shudder crawling pleasurably up his spine. He shoves Gokudera off the chair and onto the floor without warning, pinning him down with his weight.

Gokudera is not pleased.

"The hell do you think you're--"

Yamamoto effectively shuts him up with another well-timed kiss. His intimidating eyes are strangely unreadable, with a tinge of rare seriousness that makes Gokudera reevaluate several assumptions.

"I'm finishing," Yamamoto pants carefully, each syllable that rolls off his tongue trembling in his broad chest and vibrating through Gokudera's lithe frame, "what I started."

The empty classroom seems to slant inwards, confining the two in a small, scorching hot space.

"You stupid, stupid--" Gokudera gasps before yanking Yamamoto down to claim a harsh kiss.

Yamamoto has the nerve to chuckle against Gokudera's creamy lips. "I know."

"I don't like you," Gokudera hisses softly as cold air hits bare skin.

Yamamoto smiles, but it is an odd, remorseful, bitter smile.

"…I know."

Tsuna is worried.

Gokudera hadn't been his own self for the past few weeks. His enthusiasm upon greeting the Tenth had been replaced with sober grins and halfhearted words of gallantly pledging his loyalty. He smoked a lot more than usual, and spoke less. He was even weirder around Yamamoto. He seemed to have withdrawn into a silent shell, setting up barriers around himself and preferring to be alone. It was unsettling, the dead, defeated look that overwhelmed his eyes whenever he thought Tsuna wasn't watching.

Tsuna mentions all this to Yamamoto in private, expressing his concerns with utmost care.

"So I'm worried, Yamamoto-kun," Tsuna confesses at last. "Gokudera won't talk to me about what's bothering him." He gazes at Yamamoto with deep, anxious, chocolate brown eyes. "Do you think you could try and get him to open up? You're better with people than I am."

Yamamoto promises he will try.

He manages to catch Gokudera after school, heading home by himself.

"Hey--"

His hand lands on Gokudera's narrow shoulder and the youth whips away as though he has been stung.

"Don't touch me," he says coldly, without looking back.

Yamamoto is unprepared for the searing pain that drives through his heart at how firmly he is rejected. Still, he promised Tsuna, so he picks up his pace, matching Gokudera's long strides easily.

"Gokudera."

Gokudera acts like he can't hear anything, his stoic face impeccably motionless. Yamamoto falters for a split second, and then masks his wounded expression with a hearty smile.

"Maa, Gokudera, why won't you talk to me?"

The fact that Gokudera doesn't even try to acknowledge his existence is the thing that hurts the most.

"Tsuna is really worried about you."

That seems to work; Gokudera slows to a stop, staring blankly at Yamamoto. He appears to be seeing right through him, his green eyes hazy and distant.

"…The Tenth?" he whispers.

Yamamoto is torn at Gokudera's immediate, unconditional devotion to Tsuna. "Yes."

"Tell him not to worry," Gokudera says finally, and starts walking again.

Yamamoto stays behind. "…No."

Gokudera pauses, and turns. "What… did you say?" he inquires tonelessly.

"No," Yamamoto repeats, and his face grows impossibly young and saddened, doubts and insecurities rushing madly to the surface. "Talk to me, Gokkun," he pleads hopelessly, stretching out his hands in a gesture that says, I'm lost, I'm confused, I need you, come back. "Talk to me."

Gokudera is still for a long, long time.

Then he moves on briskly.

"You're an idiot."

Yamamoto thinks he must be suicidal because why else would he be searching for Hibari on school grounds? He is determined to find out Gokudera's problem, and determined to figure out why exactly his heart is on the brink of shattering into a million pieces whenever he is remotely reminded of the Italian Mafioso. He doesn't understand how he can possibly hurt this much when Gokudera ignores him because he has put up with that sort of thing for at least three years now and it never bothered him before.

Hibari appears to be in a good mood when Yamamoto first finds him, propped against a windowsill with Hi-bird cuddling close on his shoulder.

"Hey, Hibari-san," Yamamoto ventures good-naturedly.

"Don't talk to me, herbivore," Hibari replies.

"Ahaha," chuckles Yamamoto feebly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Then he thinks better and pulls them out again, in case he needs to defend himself. "I was wondering…"

"No," says Hibari.

"…if you knew what was wrong with--"

"No."

"Gokudera," sighs Yamamoto, and even saying the name sends another cruel stab of anguish bolting right into the center of his heart. He wonders briefly if it is starting to resemble a porcupine by now, or perhaps one of Hibari's box weapon hedgehogs. All the needles gouging through his chest must be inducing some damage to his exterior, he thinks, but no, when Yamamoto casts a furtive glance at his shirt, he finds no arrow piercing through it.

In the midst of his speculations, he discovers he is struggling to breathe, his lungs winded. He realizes, dazed and more than a little surprised, that it is because Hibari has pinned him to the wall by means of his tonfas. The icy metal is pressed hard on his jugular and Yamamoto can sense himself becoming dizzy. Hibari's eyes are shrewd and calculating.

"I do not believe there is anything wrong with Gokudera that is as troubling as you," he muses.

It takes a moment for Yamamoto to decipher the sentence, his brain muddled by lack of oxygen.

"I… I don't…"

"You failed to react when I attacked even though you had ample time to escape," Hibari points out mildly, releasing Yamamoto. "I do not have time for weaklings," he speaks, gazing at Yamamoto in distaste as the youth battles to regain his breath. Yamamoto keeps his head bowed, staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes quietly. Sheer politeness is the only way you can get Hibari to listen, if just for a fraction of a second. Either that or outright mocking him, but Yamamoto does not enjoy the idea of fighting the prefect bare-handed. So he restrains from directly meeting his eyes and remains in his humble position, waiting for what seems like hours.

"Rain," Hibari says calmly, "cannot survive without Storm."

And then he is gone, his footsteps treading lightly down the hallway as though they belong to a ghost.

Yamamoto blinks, perplexed. He is imagining Gokudera's fiery outburst: What kind of advice is that?! And he rubs his fatigued eyes with the heel of his palm, his shoulders slumping resignedly as he realizes he really does miss him. He straightens up wearily and turns to trudge home.

As soon as his foot crosses the threshold, he is greeted with a jubilant shout of,

"Oi, Takeshi! Come and help your old man gut this fish!"

"Yo, jii-san." Yamamoto slips off his shoes and makes his way to the kitchen. He settles into a familiar rhythm, preparing an order beside his father. They don't talk much, just fill the silence with the chopping of knives and the clack of wood on wood. Yamamoto lets his mind wander and he unconsciously begins to compare the color of the green condiment he is readying to Gokudera's brilliant peridot irises, thinking wistfully of how much more beautiful they are in contrast to the dull hue he is handling. Especially when Gokudera is angry. Yamamoto recalls how his vivid eyes flash like veins of lightning, a startling shade that glows like smoldering jewels.

A twinge of pain erupts in his finger and Yamamoto glances down to find he has cut himself with the tip of his knife. He quickly sticks the opposing digit in his mouth before anything incriminating can spill on the food, sucking the blood dry and wincing as the wasabi adds salt to his injury.

"Takeshi?" His father stares at him in lenient concern.

"Just an accident," Yamamoto says nonchalantly, waving his throbbing finger in the air.

"No, not that." His father is totally solemn now. "You look tired." He extends an arm and motions to the dark circles under his son's eyes.

"It's nothing." Yamamoto shrugs and looks away.

His father persists. "Talk to me, Takeshi."

Yamamoto stops.

Talk to me, Gokudera. Talk to me.

He chews on the inside of his cheek, unsure of himself. "Dad," he says, but his voice wavers, and he finds he can't go on. His father pats his shoulder and his aged face is full of simplistic understanding.

"Go and get some rest. I'll finish up here."

Yamamoto nods gratefully and heads to his room, not bothering to change out of his clothes before plopping unceremoniously onto his bed, his lanky limbs sprawling across the unmade sheets.

Rain cannot survive without Storm.

Rain was obviously himself, and Storm was supposed to be Gokudera. But saying that Yamamoto couldn't survive without Gokudera was a bit complicating, if not overly dramatic. Hibari wasn't one for words, except the occasional phrase of "I'll bite you to death", so what exactly was he attempting to insinuate?

Yamamoto thinks so hard his brain starts to hurt and then he lays in bed with a headache, feeling sorry for himself. He rolls over onto his back and hauls a pillow on top of his face to shut out the dim light filtering through the cracks in his window shades. He is exhausted and drained and so, so old.

Sleep does not come easily, but it does, and Yamamoto is thankful for that relief.

It is a whitewashed room, with no entryways or exits to speak of. It is spacious, but only because the décor consists of bland paint and solid floors and the furniture is nonexistent. Everything seems achingly nostalgic. Yamamoto looks around and the moment he sees Gokudera, he knows he is dreaming.

Gokudera stares at him indifferently. His attire is splashed with his typical punk rock motif and a skull-and-crossbones is displayed diagonally on the expanse of his shirt. The Storm ring hugs his middle finger comfortably, a belt slinging haphazardly across his delicious, feline hips. He looks distressfully real.

Yamamoto decides suddenly, that it is his dream and he is allowed to do anything he wants.

He crosses the short distance separating them and kisses Gokudera for all he is worth. To his astonishment, Gokudera does not resist. He merely holds still and lets Yamamoto do as he pleases, unresponsive and emotionless. Yamamoto is caught up in an abrupt wave of desire and his hands wander underneath the stony youth's clothing of their own accord, touching and stroking and testing smooth, unmarred skin. He pauses, and pulls back to study Gokudera's impassive, uncaring expression. It is yet another stake pounded through his heart and he is angry, which frightens him because he is never angry--he is Yamamoto.

But he dreams he is furious, and he pushes Gokudera onto the floor.

Gokudera's eyes are lifeless. He stares at the ceiling as sturdy fingers fumble with his belt buckle.

What happens afterwards is the worst lapse in judgment Yamamoto has ever experienced.

He looks down at Gokudera, his heart racing. Scarlet blood trickles down Gokudera's milky thighs, smearing the floor. He is limp, his hair mussed and sticking to his alluring face. Red bruises in the imprints of hands encircle his waist and hipbones, purplish hickeys blossoming over his pallid complexion. His lips are full and luscious, still glistening with saliva.

But his eyes scream that he is dead.

Yamamoto reaches out a shaky hand and is horrified to glimpse crimson droplets clinging to his fingers. He wants to vomit.

Oh God, what have I done, what have I…

Yamamoto rests his forehead on Gokudera's statuesque neck and the hollow loss he feels is accompanied by a dreadful, seeping void in Gokudera's chest. It signifies he is truly gone. The broken boy lays there, taciturn, and Yamamoto realizes at last what this Gokudera is.

A puppet.

Yamamoto wakes up gasping, drenched in sweat. He spies the clock on his desk and reads, 2:49 A.M. His body is trembling horribly, and he is ashamed, disgusted, and ridden with guilt. He steadies his breathing with minor difficulty but when he recognizes a certain tightness between his legs he feels dirty, dirty, dirty.

He stumbles to the bathroom, in desperate need of a cold shower. When he gets there, he flips on the light and examines himself in the mirror. His face is gaunt, his eyes restless. He looks haunted. Tainted. Corrupted.

"You pervert," he whispers to his reflection.

He goes weak at the knees as the earlier nightmare implants itself in his memories.

"You make me sick."

His features harden mournfully and he squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the countertop till his knuckles blanch white.

"…I'm sorry."

"Ohayo, Tenth!" Gokudera beams at Tsuna and Yamamoto regretfully welcomes the dull prod of sorrow that hits his battered heart. He wishes he were Tsuna, sometimes. Wishes Gokudera would smile at him like he smiles at his beloved Tenth. He knows it is not Tsuna's fault, though, and he doesn't blame him.

"Ohayo, Gokudera-kun," Tsuna answers happily, relieved to see that his companion has returned to his normal moody self.

"What are we doing after school today?" asks Gokudera, taking a seat in front of the brunette. His eyes are a little too bright, Yamamoto thinks, his skin just a shade too pale. He notices how small tremors travel the length of Gokudera's hand when he drums his spidery fingers on the table, and how his actions are slightly jerky.

"Oh, well…" Tsuna looks embarrassed. "Yamamoto has a game today, so I thought…" He trails off, remembering how much Gokudera dislikes attending baseball games, more so if Yamamoto is the person they are meant to be rooting for.

"Alright," Gokudera says, surprising everyone else. "I'll be there." He stands up.

"Eh--Gokudera-kun, aren't you going to stay for lunch?"

"No, I'm fine." Gokudera smiles encouragingly and walks away, but not before Yamamoto can detect the faint trace of illness in the corners of his crumbly lips. Yamamoto starts to rise, watching Gokudera leave. His gait is choppy and uneven, as if he can't focus on one direction. He bumps into a table of second-years and the entire cafeteria seems to gather a collective breath as he painstakingly regains his balance. His hand slides out of his pocket and tosses a square object inside a trashcan as he passes by. A few steps later he falters, and suddenly falls.

"Gokudera-kun!" Tsuna cries, but Yamamoto is already there, supporting Gokudera's weight as he is caught in his arms. Gokudera barely discerns who is holding him. His skin is slicked with sweat and he is convulsing horridly, shivers racking his feathery build as he breathes rapidly and shallowly. Yamamoto touches his forehead and a hiss of dismay eludes his throat.

Tsuna hovers over them nervously, wringing his hands. "What's wrong?"

"He's burning up," Yamamoto murmurs, composed, though inwardly his world is one heaving mass of chaos. His brow furrows. "We have to get him to the nurse." Gokudera is trembling violently, like a leaf shaking in the wind, and Yamamoto has to hook an arm under his knees and carry him bridal style. When they pass the trashcan Yamamoto happens to glance inside and is stunned to find the last thing he expects to be disposed of sitting innocently atop last week's newspapers:

A pack of cigarettes.

Yamamoto stares at Gokudera, whose pained face has managed to bury itself in his shoulder, his fleeting exhales landing on his neck. His body is tensing and relaxing so quickly that Yamamoto fears he will fall apart. There is a warm substance leaking into his clothes; Yamamoto looks down and spots blood mottling the fabric of Gokudera's Namimori High uniform. Gokudera whispers something cryptic in Italian, his slender fingers clutching at Yamamoto's shirt and digging their nails into a particular patch of skin beneath.

The only words Yamamoto can understand are explicit terms in the profane English dictionary. He briefly marvels at the impressive collection of irreverent vocabulary Gokudera has memorized and hurries down the hall to the office, Tsuna hot on his heels.

When they finally make it to the nurse's room, it is deserted except for a lone figure standing by the window. Tsuna squints at the man in disbelief.

"Dr. Shamal?!" he yelps, aghast. "What are you doing here?"

Shamal turns. "Ah, Tsuna. What a shame. I thought you might be another pretty nurse." He flicks a curious glance at Gokudera. "What's wrong with him?"

Before anyone can reply, he shrugs casually and starts to walk out. "Oh well. It doesn't matter since I don't treat boys anyway."

Tsuna opens his mouth to object, his worried gaze trained on Gokudera's hunched form, but Yamamoto acts first, stepping between Shamal and the doorway. Shamal raises a lazy eyebrow.

"He's really sick, you know." Yamamoto tightens his grip on Gokudera.

"I know."

"He might die."

"That's sad."

"You've got to help him," says Yamamoto, but it is more of a command, his eyes blazing.

"I don't treat boys," Shamal tells him slowly, like he is trying to communicate with a five-year-old.

"Then help us help him," Tsuna intercepts, pleading. Shamal looks at Gokudera again, and Gokudera fights to crack open an eyelid, glaring stubbornly back at the doctor.

"I was taught that life…" he pants weakly, "is precious. And now you're seriously going to… take that knowledge… and screw it all up?"

This is how Yamamoto knows Gokudera is in real pain--he is actually asking for assistance. His slim body is so grievously vulnerable in Yamamoto's arms. He is taut, an elastic band stretched to its limit, and yet his spine is quivering uncontrollably, his eyes watery and his skin feverish. Yamamoto lays him down on the bed and Tsuna engages in a contest of sorts with Shamal, his heartfelt gaze drilling compassionately into the older man's own.

Gokudera looses a half-whimper, half-moan and his head lolls back and forth, his hands flying out to latch onto Yamamoto. He is struggling to contain his heedless thrashing, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. A lovely flush paints his otherwise colorless cheeks, and Yamamoto wishes this could be another situation, another time, where Gokudera isn't in danger of losing his life.

"Take his pulse," Shamal orders out of the blue, and Yamamoto hastens to comply. "How is it?"

"Irregular."

"How irregular?"

"Like…" Yamamoto can't think of a proper adjective that will describe the unpremeditated thrusts of Gokudera's heart, or how some beats are weak, barely alive, while others speed up and drop into a terrifying stillness before returning sharply, violently. "Really irregular."

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Shamal swats Yamamoto aside and presses two fingers to Gokudera's neck. He frowns and Tsuna starts hyperventilating. The doctor mutters something intelligible to himself, his eyebrows knitting together. "Go get some ice," he tells Tsuna at last, rolling up his sleeves. "Lots of it. Hurry!"

Tsuna dashes out of the room.

"Take off his shirt," Shamal instructs, and Yamamoto's fingers shake a little as he gropes with the buttons on Gokudera's uniform. Finally, growing impatient, he just rips the whole thing in two, straight down the middle. Gokudera seems not to notice. Yamamoto stares in horror at the wide strips of bandages wound tight around the calamitous youth's abdomen, sopping wet with dark ruby blood.

"Damn boys don't use their godforsaken heads," grumbles Shamal, and pulls out a syringe. He squirts a specific amount from the tip and hands it to Yamamoto.

"Inject this in his arm."

Yamamoto doesn't know how he is handling this so neutrally but he is, so he does, forcing his hand steady.

Gokudera gasps something that sounds suspiciously like "ah shit" and "I hate baseball", and then his eyes drift shut, his body going limp.

"That was a pretty potent mix of drugs," Shamal explains as he swiftly dampens a washcloth with water from the sink and places it on Gokudera's forehead. "It's got a Trident restorative in it so it should help with his infection, but only for about five minutes." He unwinds the bandages and Yamamoto's stomach lurches unpleasantly.

Gokudera's torso is sporting raw, gaping, blistering injuries, cuts and bruises and burns blanketing his chest.

"The hell is wrong with this kid?" Shamal grunts in irritation. He coats a cotton ball with antiseptic and dabs at the most unfavorable wounds. "Stupid brat going off and picking fights with gangs…" He turns to glare at Yamamoto. "What are you doing just standing there?" he demands. "Help me clean this dumbass up."

By the time they are finished, the Trident medicine has finished applying its curing methods and the majority of Gokudera's superficial injuries have vanished completely. His fatal wounds aren't looking too shabby either, their edges pink and fleshy in the initial process of healing. They have used all the ice Tsuna has brought in an effort to cool down Gokudera's fever and Yamamoto's muscles have condensed into a coiled mound of tension. He twists, popping his back and grimacing.

Tsuna gazes at Gokudera's exhausted form sadly. "He'll be alright, won't he?"

Yamamoto claps Tsuna on the back. "Course he will!" he proclaims. "Gokkun is tougher than he looks."

Shamal yawns. "Give him some painkillers when he wakes up," he says, and strolls out of the room, mumbling complaints underneath his breath. "Che. Dumb kids. Do they know how many girls I could have been hitting on instead of trying to save someone's life…?"

"Yamamoto-kun, what about your game today?"

Yamamoto glances at the clock. "I've still got a few hours." He pulls up a chair next to the bed and sits in it, smiling confidently at Tsuna. "You should go to class. I'll stay here and take care of Gokudera. Don't worry," he adds gently when Tsuna looks at his best friend's crumpled form. "He'll be fine."

"Okay." Tsuna returns the smile, albeit tearfully. "Let me know if…"

Yamamoto nods. "Not a problem."

"Arigato."

Yamamoto stays by Gokudera's side. He keeps his silent vigil until he dozes off, sinking into weariness.

A soft sound; the scraping of a shoe against the floor, and he is awake instantly, crouched over Gokudera in a defensive stance with inhuman speed. He isn't even fully awake--his sleepy eyes need time to adjust to the light, and yet he accepts his body's natural instinct to guard, to protect what is deemed important.

"Ever the observant one, aren't you, Yamamoto Takeshi?"

Yamamoto blinks. The voice seems to be coming from the floor. His stare travels lower… and lower.

"Oh hey, little buddy!"

Reborn tips his hat. "Ciaossu." He lets Yamamoto pick him up and settle him on his shoulder. Reborn studies Gokudera from his high perch in the relative quiet. "Disappointing," is all he says, and Yamamoto feels the urge to disagree. He starts to speak but Reborn beats him to it.

"You realize this is partly your fault, don't you?"

Yamamoto stops, dumbfounded.

Reborn continues to examine Gokudera thoughtfully. "Gokudera is a rather destructive person. When he confronts problems, his solution is likely to be to blow them up. In this case, he went and deliberately instigated fights among opposing gangs. A rash decision to make, but of course, this is Gokudera Hayato."

"But… these wounds," Yamamoto murmurs dazedly. "Surely he couldn't have gotten them while battling gang members. They're really no match for him… Are they?"

"No," Reborn confirms. "They don't stand a chance against a Vongola, let alone the Storm Guardian."

Then he says, "Gokudera got those wounds from Hibari Kyouya," and Yamamoto thinks maybe he's not the suicidal one after all.

"What?" he gasps. "Hibari-san?"

Reborn nods and inclines his head towards Gokudera's battered figure, whose serene features are melting into a substantial frown as he begins to stir, wrestling for consciousness. "Quite the troublemaker, this one is. It'll be a disturbance if he keeps it up."

The baby hops off Yamamoto's shoulder, lands on his feet, and strides ahead, pausing in the doorway.

"Your job, Yamamoto Takeshi, is to take care of Gokudera Hayato. In this way you will be atoning for your, shall we say, 'sins'. Rain cannot survive without Storm," he says casually, and Yamamoto's eyes widen. "However, Storm must learn the necessity of Rain." He disappears with that eloquent parting response, leaving Yamamoto bewildered, awed, and faced with a grumpy Gokudera.

"Wha…" Gokudera mumbles hoarsely, and winces.

"Don't move," Yamamoto says quickly. He takes the bottle of painkillers Shamal prescribed and pours two of the pills into Gokudera's hand. His fingers linger involuntarily on his palm, but luckily Gokudera is too confused to notice and he gulps the tablets down instead. Yamamoto hands him a glass of water and Gokudera drains it to the last drop. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, places the glass on the counter behind him, and then says in a voice so low Yamamoto has to strain to hear him,

"Get out."

Yamamoto rubs the back of his head, puzzled. Was Gokudera hallucinating?

"I'm not hallucinating, moron. Get out."

Yamamoto still isn't convinced. "Gokudera, are you okay?"

"Yes I'm okay you baseball idiot."

Okay, so maybe he wasn't hallucinating.

Gokudera glowers at Yamamoto, and Yamamoto is taken aback at the fiery rage radiating from him.

"Gokudera…?" He extends an arm but Gokudera smacks it away abruptly.

"Don't touch me," he hisses.

Yamamoto stiffens, his wrist stinging. He is beginning to feel a faint, nagging rise of anger swell in the creeping depths of his soul. It is an alarming thought. "What's your problem?" he asks, his voice dangerously soft as he recalls his personal nightmare.

"My problem? You. You're my problem."

Yamamoto's eyes narrow, thinking of Reborn. "You realize this is partly your fault, don't you?"

"…Am I the reason you went off and picked a fight with Hibari-san?" he wonders cautiously.

"Just shut up." Gokudera bristles. "Just shut up and get out." There is venom in his tone, a cold fury emanating from his deadly, steely gaze. Yamamoto realizes, with a start, that there is pure hatred in there as well, and it is like the world has dropped away from beneath his feet and he is falling into nothing.

"Gokudera…"

"Stop," he growls as Yamamoto attempts to advance. Yamamoto withdraws, his mind whirling with questions and oblivion and a total, utter loss. He has never felt such pain before, he thinks terribly, never ever. Not even when he had lost to the Phantom Knight using his kendo. This is a whole new kind of pain, differentiating from anything he has experienced, physical and emotional. The only memory that can almost equal the level of agony he is feeling would be the battle with Gammon in the future. Yamamoto remembers laying helpless on the ground, his heart shredding and ripping with each scream Gokudera makes as he is being mercilessly tortured for information.

He had been defeated then, unable to fight back. He remained excruciatingly aware of Gokudera's enormous, colossal anguish, dying a thousand deaths inside because he couldn't do anything--anything--about it. He catalogued the hardship afterwards, and filed it away into his mind. He made an eternal oath, on blood and sweat and tears, that he was going to die before he allowed another catastrophe like that happen ever again. Not to Gokudera, not to Tsuna, not to anyone.

He will never forget that.

"Gokudera, tell me what--"

"No!" Gokudera explodes. "Just get the hell away," he snarls loathingly, "and leave me the fuck alone!"

Yamamoto goes rigid and suddenly he is towering over the defiant teen, looming, aggressive, and intimidating, and Gokudera is vaguely stunned to discover that he is afraid. Then Yamamoto's eyes adopt a strange, lifeless look.

"You really hate me, don't you?" he whispers.

"No joke, Sherlock," Gokudera snaps. "I hate you and everything about you."

Yamamoto turns and walks away.

When he reaches the hall, he keeps walking, past rows of classrooms and windows until he rounds a corner and abruptly slumps against the wall, sliding down like a sack of potatoes. He is shaking.

"Gokudera…"

He holds his head in his hands, drained of human emotion.

"How am I supposed to take care of you," he breathes mournfully, "when you won't let me?"

Tsuna is worried. Again.

Only this time the cause of his anxiety is Yamamoto, which is a surprise. Tsuna doesn't know who to turn to except Gokudera, and so he breaches the subject when he is visiting the youth in his hospital room. The transition there had been somewhat tense as Ryohei was the one who had assisted Gokudera to the ambulance. Tsuna was perplexed as to why exactly Gokudera refused to be helped by Yamamoto when he so openly expressed his dislike of the "lawn head". It was nothing short of a miracle, how Gokudera had survived the mad rush downstairs in his current condition. Tsuna can still hear Ryohei's outrageous roar of,

"WHOO! Gokudera, you are injured TO THE EXTREME!"

And Gokudera yelling, "Oh God slow down!"

Tsuna shifts underneath Gokudera's intense gaze. His eyes are fixed solely on him whenever he is speaking, a humbling act of respect. Sometimes Tsuna feels as if Gokudera is expecting great things from him and the pressure he senses can be unnerving, but he never fails to be amazed at the extraordinary lengths his comrade would go to in honoring the Tenth's name.

"Yamamoto's been like this ever since the day you collapsed in the cafeteria," Tsuna says tentatively.

Gokudera glances away. "…I'm sure he's fine."

"But he's so focused on sports now. I mean, not that he wasn't before…"

"He's a baseball freak. It's normal to see him all pessimistic in the middle of a season."

"Really?" Tsuna appears doubtful.

"Yeah." Gokudera's fingers twitch for an imaginary cigarette but he remembers he threw his pack away and so he settles for scowling at the ceiling. He massages his temples, trying to soothe his migraine without the use of aspirin. His lips feel dry and chalky.

Like clockwork, a nurse comes in and sets a tray of food on his lap. He stares at the bowl in front of him when she leaves.

"The hell is this?" He pokes at the chunky substance with his spoon.

"I think it's clam chowder," says Tsuna, amused. "Or… it's supposed to be."

Gokudera makes a face. "What? That's not clam chowder, that's a disgrace." He pushes the tray to the side and smiles contentedly as Tsuna laughs. It is genuine, and Gokudera is happy for him.

"It's nice to see you laugh," he says sincerely. Tsuna smiles softly, and suddenly leans in to hug Gokudera, mindful of his fresh bandages. Gokudera reddens.

"T-Tenth?"

Tsuna looks sheepish, blushing slightly. "Um… I just…" He shakes his head, embarrassed. "Never mind." He stands up, patting Gokudera's shoulder. "I'll see you later," he says cheerfully, and exits the room.

Gokudera smiles a beautiful, crude smile.

"Thank you."

He closes his eyes. His headache is gone.

"…Tsuna."

The nightmares plague him every single night. They are relentless and brutal, images of Gokudera's sleek, refined profile beginning to ink permanently into the inside of Yamamoto's eyelids. Always, always it is that same white room, that empty prison. Yamamoto has tried everything to get the dream Gokudera to acknowledge his presence. He has tried pleading, begging, bargaining. He shouts at him, yells every single swear word he can think of--most of which he has learned from Gokudera himself. He even tries hitting him once, but the doll merely gazes up at him with soulless, consuming eyes and a split lip that bleeds profusely. Yamamoto feels like a murderer then.

But every time, before the nightmare can end, he kisses the dream Gokudera and holds him in a fragile embrace, whispering apologies in his ear.

I'm sorry you hate me. I'm sorry I'm not strong. I'm sorry I hurt you. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

And Yamamoto wakes up in torment and despair.

He doesn't know what he did wrong, all he knows is that it is his fault and he has resorted to blaming himself. He trains for kendo after baseball practice every day. His goal is to perfect his Shigure Souen style. His father watches him trudge home from the dojo when it is dark, and Yamamoto doesn't need to meet his eyes to see the disappointment and concern there. He rarely talks anymore, doesn't smile as often. The change in his personality is drastic, and even his team members avoid him.

He is walking to the dojo when he bumps into someone. A girl collides into his chest and he automatically catches her by the shoulders. She blinks at him with one large violet eye.

"Yamamoto?"

"Chrome?" He releases her, faking a smile as he absently scratches his head. "Hey... It's been a while."

She nods. "I see your sense of chivalry hasn't changed."

Yamamoto grins halfheartedly. "How's Mukuro?"

Chrome is silent for a moment. "He hasn't contacted me since…"

"Oh."

She studies him carefully. "Are you alright? You don't seem like yourself."

"I'm…" Yamamoto trails off uncertainly.

"Is it Gokudera-kun?" asks Chrome, sympathetic.

Yamamoto is astonished. "How did you…"

She shrugs. "I had a hunch."

Translation: female intuition.

"Come on," she says kindly. "Let's take a walk."

The weather is mild and the sun is out, with few clouds in the blue sky. Mother nature is being generous today. The sakura blossoms are in bloom, relinquishing a sweet scent on the warm breeze. Chrome is a good listener; she allows Yamamoto the freedom of speech and watches attentively as he struggles to convey his turmoil. It is a relief to conquer some of his burdens.

"I don't know why he hates me," Yamamoto murmurs. "I just… I don't know."

Chrome plucks a fallen flower from the earth and brings it to her nose, inhaling its enjoyable aroma as they stroll along. "It seems to me that Gokudera-kun doesn't know either."

"Eh?"

"Gokudera-kun isn't exactly susceptible to these kinds of emotions," Chrome explains patiently. "It's likely that he doesn't know what to do about them. He's probably feeling very confused." She twirls the stem between her fingers. "Relax. If you really care about him, you'll give him time. Time to think. He'll understand soon enough. Till then, you'll just have to wait."

For the first time since Gokudera left him, Yamamoto truly smiles. "Thank you, Chrome."

"Sure." She hands him the flower. "If there's anything else I can do, let me know."

Yamamoto stares at the flower thoughtfully, then at Chrome. "Actually… I have a favor to ask."

"Yes?"

He takes a deep breath. "…Chrome, will you be my girlfriend?"

Gokudera groans as he stretches too far and his bandaged wounds squeal in protest. Slouching back in his seat, he watches Tsuna eat his obento, flicking his cool gaze to the other end of the cafeteria and fiddling with his pencil. He is about to jot down a score on his papers when something catches his eye and he freezes.

Yamamoto walks in the lunchroom, hand in hand with Chrome Dokuro. They are smiling at each other, their voices inaudible as they carry on a conversation of intrigue. Yamamoto looks glad, his chipper grin fixated in place as he utters a deep-throated chuckle, taking a seat at the table. Tsuna watches in awe as Yamamoto bids Chrome goodbye and laughs when she blows him a kiss.

"Whoa," Tsuna gasps in amazement. "Yamamoto! You and…?"

Yamamoto smiles foolishly, running a hand through his hair. "Well, yeah. I guess so."

The pencil breaks in two under Gokudera's hand and he stares blankly at the lead marks gouged in his palm.

"Gokudera, you okay?" Yamamoto is gazing at him with gentle, innocent eyes.

Gokudera forces a smile on his face. "Y-yeah."

"Wow, Yamamoto-kun! You are bold to the extreme!!" Ryohei shouts admiringly. Tsuna cringes at his booming voice and Gokudera glares at the loud teen. He returns to his paperwork, his mind a cluttered mess. His heart is pounding unnaturally fast and he vaguely wonders why. He tries to block out his surroundings, concentrating instead on picking out each individual splinter from the tabletop.

Yamamoto…?

He is dreadfully disoriented, his thoughts incoherent. It is like reality is slipping further and further from his horizon. A great wave of insistent feelings washes over him, drowning out everything with a toneless buzz. Yamamoto seems very far away, his eager face smiling at him with that familiar, infuriating happiness as though he is the light at the end of a tunnel. Gokudera clenches his jaw and tries to think straight, but it is increasingly difficult the more he dwells on the fact that Yamamoto is in an actual relationship. With Chrome, no less. He hopes his features are composed, hopes no one notices the stress in his stance escalating to impossible heights.

"Yamamoto-kun! You have inspired me to confess to the extreme!!"

Tsuna panics as Ryohei stands up and marches to the opposite side of the table. "Eh? Nii-san?"

"GOKUDERA HAYATO!" Ryohei declares, and Gokudera's head snaps up, a scowl plastered on his face.

"The hell--"

"I like you, TO THE EXTREME!!" yells the oblivious youth, and promptly kisses him.

Gokudera is caught totally off guard by the heat of an alien mouth on his, and he tenses in complete shock. Ryohei takes this as consent and kisses with renewed fervor, his tongue enthusiastically slipping past Gokudera's lips and his hands supporting the sides of his head. Gokudera thinks he must be dreaming.

"Mmph--"

Suddenly, Ryohei isn't there and Gokudera is panting, his jittery gaze jumping from one thing to another, as if he has awoken from a trance. His hair is in a tasteful disarray, his eyes glazed and his lips full. Tsuna is asking him something but he can't hear. Gokudera finds himself face to face with Yamamoto, who is standing before him, his hand still balled into a fist. He looks as surprised as he does, his golden orbs glimmering intensely. Ryohei is sprawled on the floor, holding his jaw and wincing.

Gokudera can't tear his gaze away from Yamamoto's, their eyes locked.

For an eternity, they simply stare at one another, breathing in and breathing out, neither of them daring to blink. Yamamoto appears puzzled, his mouth set into a firm line. It takes a minute for Gokudera to decipher the hidden message encoded in the powerful slant of the teen's brow and when he does, he is taken aback.

It is envy. Yamamoto is jealous.

But that's not right, Gokudera thinks. He has to be wrong because Yamamoto is with Chrome now. It is getting harder to breathe. Something seems to be lodged in his throat and he wonders if maybe it is a piece of the pencil he broke. Yamamoto's face is stern and still and Gokudera can't help but think that he resembles a lion, noble and majestic. There is mystery shrouding the core of his spirit, his wild, thrilling gaze making Gokudera's pulse quicken its rate in excitement of a premonition. Then he remembers Chrome, remembers how exuberant Yamamoto was in her presence, and how he laughed because she adored him.

The sound floods back to Gokudera's ears with a swift roar.

"Wow, Yamamoto-kun! You should join the boxing club, to the extreme!" Ryohei exclaims brightly, rubbing the sore spot where he had been punched.

Gokudera breaks free at last, and runs from Yamamoto, runs like the coward he is.

"Gokudera-kun!" Tsuna calls after him anxiously.

Tenth…

Gokudera grits his teeth and keeps running.

I guess I really am no good as your right-hand man.

The hallway is deserted, save for a few students who hurriedly get out of his way lest they become caught in his tumultuous aura. He is almost at the stairs, almost to the roof where he can blow off some steam.

"Oi."

A leg swoops out and he trips over it. His arms cross quickly, catching his fall and rebounding him up from a somersault. He lands with the agility of a cat, sliding gracefully into a fighting position. One hand is already at his back pocket, fingering his dynamite.

Hibari stares at him coolly. "No running in the halls." Hi-bird fluffs its feathers pretentiously, nuzzling its squishy body near to Hibari's neck in a ridiculously smug manner.

"I'm not in the mood," hisses Gokudera. He straightens up to make his escape, but a spark of interest has alighted in Hibari's eyes and the prefect is brandishing his tonfas.

"Oh, I think you will be."

Gokudera groans inwardly, his injuries beginning to ache. "I don't have time for this."

There is a hungry look in Hibari's gaze, the visage of a carnivore. He has seen the immense conflict warring in Gokudera's eyes and he is intent on drawing it out.

"Fight me," he commands, and just when Gokudera thinks he has no other option, Chrome wanders in.

"Oh." She looks at them, perplexed. "Sorry." She is garbed in school clothes and that seems to attract Hibari's ravenous attention.

"Uniforms," he says distinctly, "are meant only for students who attend Namimori High."

Gokudera hears Chrome shriek on his way upstairs and refuses to let himself feel guilty.

Damn it.

Gokudera bites his lip and glares around the barren cafeteria.

"Looking for this?" asks a voice, and he whirls towards the source to see Yamamoto holding his papers in the air with a cheeky grin.

Gokudera exhales gruffly and walks forward to retrieve them. The instant before they can be grasped, Yamamoto raises his hand above his head, dangling the papers out of Gokudera's reach.

"Oi, what the hell?" Gokudera scowls pointedly at Yamamoto's smiling face. He'd calmed reasonably since his initial encounter with Chrome, choosing to skip the remainder of class and waste time on the roof. He had been amusing himself for the rest of his absence by chucking mini bombs at the playground, watching first-years scream and run.

Gokudera huffs impatiently. "Yes, you're taller than me. I get it. Now give." He stands on the tips of his toes, straining to get his paperwork. In doing so, he inadvertently lends Yamamoto a close view of his face.

Yamamoto watches Gokudera's bottom lip push out cutely in an unconscious pout, his grassy eyes focusing elsewhere as he tries to pull down Yamamoto's arm. His breath smells pleasantly like cream soda, and his exhales are precariously near to the athletic boy's mouth. His fingers push on Yamamoto's shoulder, attempting to steal some leverage as his vanilla lips accidentally graze his chin. Gokudera flinches backwards, suddenly aware of the close contact, and Yamamoto misses the warmth as the youth retreats.

"What are these?" the raven-haired boy asks teasingly, glancing at the papers.

"What do they look like, retard? They're sheet music," Gokudera growls in annoyance. "For piano."

Yamamoto doesn't have to feign his surprise. "I thought you gave up on that years ago."

"Yeah, well." Gokudera crosses his arms in irritation and taps the sole of his foot on the floor. "I thought I might start again."

"So this is a song you composed?"

"Yes. Now will you hand it over?"

"I will… if you'll play it for me."

Gokudera stares at him. "What are you talking about? It's not even finished."

"That's okay. I still want to listen."

Gokudera frowns when Yamamoto gives no indication that he is going to give him his papers and then sighs, exasperated.

"Fine."

He brushes past him and Yamamoto grins wider, following the teen to the music room.

The grand piano has been in the school for as long as Yamamoto can remember. It is a glossy, black, classic work of art, always tuned to perfection. The sunlight striking through the glass window illuminates Gokudera's silver hair as he sits down on the padded bench and takes the papers from Yamamoto.

He organizes them on the piano, arranging them into some complicated sequence, and carefully rests an elegant finger upon a key, hesitant. The light gleams on the Storm ring he is wearing, reflecting pale specks of sapphire over his knuckles. Finally, he pushes the square and a single, clear note chimes throughout the room.

Yamamoto was never good with music, but he thinks the song is played masterfully.

He can tell Gokudera has incredible skill, by his fluid movements and the way his fingers dance effortlessly across white and black keys, conjuring a melodious harmony that swells, filling up the whole room with nothing but singing. Gokudera hardly has to spare a glance at his hands as they flow over the piano like water, his features relaxing into a poised expression of tranquility that makes Yamamoto catch his breath because he knows he has never seen anything so beautiful, not quite like this.

Gokudera looks simply evangelistic, his serene face bathed in an exotic glow. The melody grows and grows, expanding into every inch of the room until it is as though the sheer force of it is repelling Yamamoto at the same time it is pulling him back in. Yamamoto forgets to breathe, honestly believing his heart is on the verge of cracking because it is brimming with music. Then--

Silence.

It is so sudden that Yamamoto has to think for a moment, to remember where he is and what he's doing.

Gokudera stares at his hands, contemplating, and slowly stacks his papers, tucking them under his arm. He stands stiffly, avoiding Yamamoto's gaze. Yamamoto is afraid to break the holy silence, somehow thinking that if he does, he will be forever cursed, but he wants to say something, wants to tell Gokudera how inspiring he is.

"Gokudera," he whispers faintly.

"Shut up…" Gokudera's voice shakes and Yamamoto is stunned to discover that his gemstone eyes are filmed with unshed tears. Gokudera wipes them away angrily. "Go home."

"What's wrong?" Yamamoto asks, feeling terrible. "What's wrong?"

"No. Don't…"

"Gokudera. I want to help you. Why is that so bad?" Yamamoto resists the urge to gather that lonely figure into his arms, to comfort him. "Gokudera…"

"Stop. Just stop right there, or I swear to God…"

Yamamoto is torn. "Gokudera," he repeats.

"Leave me alone!" Gokudera snarls. "Leave me alone!" He turns to flee but Yamamoto won't let him. He shoves him against the doorframe and Gokudera stiffens, his eyes wide.

"I won't need to leave you alone if you'll just talk to me," Yamamoto rumbles, his voice like thunder.

Gokudera slams him into the wall, equally stormy. "Talking never did me any good," he says coldly, and stalks off down the hallway.

"I don't think this is going to work," Yamamoto confesses ruefully. "I should never have asked you in the first place… I'm really sorry."

Chrome shakes her head. "No, it's fine."

"If there's anything I can do to make it up to you…"

"Take me on a date."

"I… what?"

"Take me on a date." Chrome shrugs. "I need to go shopping for Ken and Chikusa anyways, so you might as well come along to keep me company."

Yamamoto blinks, smiling a little. "Alright."

They end up going downtown to Harajuku district together, spending the afternoon milling around stores and chatting about trivial things. Yamamoto does his best to pretend he is Chrome's significant other.

"I feel like a pedophile who's taking advantage of you," he admits as they are crossing the road.

Chrome bursts out laughing and pulls him into a dark alleyway. "Well, if you really feel that way…" There is a muffled poof and when Yamamoto is hauled back out onto the sidewalk from a plume of purple smoke, he gapes at the person whose hand he is currently holding.

"H-Hibari-san?!"

"No," Chrome giggles, which seems extremely eerie coming from Hibari's lips. "This is an illusion. Does it help?"

Yamamoto swallows. "Yeah. Um. Wow. Scary, but wow."

Chrome smiles and drags him into an odd shop where she examines their selection of gum. Yamamoto drifts to the back of the store and looks at their baseball cards. He becomes immersed in major league statistics before realizing, with a jolt, that he has been away from Chrome for a long time. He doesn't see her anywhere in the store so he hurries outside and finds her standing on the street with her arms full of shopping bags. He latches around her waist and frowns into her shoulder.

"I couldn't find you," he complains. "At least tell me when you're going to run off like that."

"Gomen, although I bet you have a lot of experience chasing people down," comments Chrome, gingerly disentangling herself from him and checking to make sure nothing she bought had been damaged.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Yamamoto queries.

"Nothing," Chrome says breezily.

"Well you're just the little advice columnist today, aren't you?" Yamamoto grumbles good-naturedly.

"Yes. I am."

They grin at each other, and then Yamamoto stands back solemnly. "But you know, if you keep on slaughtering Hibari's reputation like that, I think I'm going to be in real trouble when I go back to school."

Chrome rolls her eyes. "Okay, okay." She slips into another alleyway.

Poof.

Yamamoto waits for her to come out, wondering who he would see next.

He is unprepared for a familiar set of emerald eyes and lustrous hair walking into his arms.

"Gokudera," he gasps, and crushes him in a suffocating embrace, burying his face into the conjuncture of his throat and shoulder and inhaling the weak scent of dynamite powder. He tightens his hold around that gangly frame and presses his lips to his pulse. That is when he knows he is smitten. Utterly hopeless.

Chrome pokes him in the stomach. "You're--squishing me," she wheezes, and Yamamoto lets her go.

"Oh--sorry." He raises a hand and strokes back Gokudera's hair, revealing more of his lovely face. An uncharacteristic smile is on his lips and Yamamoto has to remind himself that this isn't Gokudera.

"Yamamoto," Chrome says gently. "This was a wonderful date. I should like to do this again sometime."

"Yeah. Me too," Yamamoto replies, but he is wholly transfixed by Gokudera's captivating gaze.

She sighs. "Yamamoto, don't settle for artificial flavors when you can have the real thing." She pats his cheek fondly and disappears into the crowd.

Yamamoto doesn't have time to reflect on her wisdom because he's too busy watching Gokudera walk away.

"Rain cannot survive without Storm. However, Storm must learn the necessity of Rain."

Gokudera squints at Reborn. He has a grudging respect for the baby, after all, he is the Tenth's tutor, but at the moment he thinks the infant is spouting nonsense. "…How did you get in my apartment?" he deadpans.

"Rain cannot survive with Storm," Reborn repeats. "However, Storm must learn the necessity of Rain."

Gokudera rolls over in his bed. "Whatever."

An instant later he is yanked into his closet. "Ow--what the fuck--" He freezes, a deer in headlights.

"B-Bianchi?!"

She beams at him and Gokudera drops like a stone, clutching his stomach.

What happens next is mostly a blur. Through the nausea and the cramps, Gokudera can only perceive the humiliating process of being stripped down to his boxers and crammed into something expensive and tight. Then Bianchi's hair sweeps over his vision like a curtain of death and a sickening pang in his abdomen knocks him out.

He can just barely remember being lugged into a car, driven someplace downtown--going way over the speed limit--and then being thrown at the door of a club while his sister's cry of,

"Have a nice night, Gokudera!" fades into the distance.

Gokudera lays sprawled in the street until he doesn't feel dizzy anymore and then staggers upright, glaring at the club he has been dropped off at. He catches a glimpse of his mirror image in the glass window and stares at it in amazement.

Damn, Bianchi may make him physically and mentally ill but she is one hell of a fashion designer.

Gokudera's eyes are wide, his luminous jadeite orbs crystal sharp against the backdrop of his ivory skin. His hair is behaving for once, combed to the side but tousled in an appealing, windblown way. His jeans are black and fit the subtle curve of his lower body, with red and white stripes running down the seams. He is equipped with his double belt, the studded X crossing over his hips. His skater shoes are scuffed. He isn't wearing much jewelry, save for his Storm ring and a spiked choker looped casually around his slender neck. The rest of his attire consists of a white tank top with the words SMOKING BOMB inscribed in the billowy fabric.

Gokudera smirks slightly--very slightly--at the pun.

Oh, what the hell, he thinks, and walks into the club.

Yamamoto is on his third shot of alcohol and feeling rather tipsy. He swirls the liquid in his glass for a minute or two, gazing around the dance floor and wondering how in the world he managed to get here…

The bouncer at the back entrance winks at him.

Ahh. Right.

Yamamoto tells himself he shouldn't be doing this, not when he's in the middle of his season, but then he recalls a certain dynamite-wielding Mafia member and thinks, Maybe one more drink…

Pretty soon, he's having trouble counting the fingers on his hand because they keep multiplying at a frightening rate. He figures he's drunk.

So it's not all that surprising when his Gokudera strides into the crowded club looking extremely molestable, albeit somewhat blurry around the edges. Yamamoto waves his arm to be noticed, but then he's losing his balance and his spastic flailing manages to fling himself clean off his bar stool.

In a flash, Gokudera arrives, grabbing his arm and lifting him back up incredulously. "Baseball idiot?"

"Haha, Gokkun, you're really funny." Yamamoto grins at him, then frowns quizzically. "How come there are so many of you?" he asks, and Gokudera smacks his forehead with his palm.

"Look at you, you're flaming drunk, baka."

Yamamoto isn't paying much attention to what Gokudera's saying because he's more interested in his lips. They are fragrant and glossy, forming words and frequently slipping apart to reveal an enticing tongue. Yamamoto slowly extends a hand and strokes those luscious petals with his thumb, feeling Gokudera tense beneath his questing touch.

Then he slumps forward, into his arms.

"Oi, moron!"

Gokudera sighs when there is no response. "You're hopeless," he grumbles, and maneuvers the teen into a stable position, supporting his heavy body by capturing his waist with an arm. Yamamoto clings to him, dazedly delighted at the appreciated contact.

"Maa, Gokkun. And here I thought you didn't like me…" Yamamoto nuzzles his nose into Gokudera's neck and Gokudera firmly shrugs him off, but not before Yamamoto hears his startled, wheezy chuckle.

"Eh? Gokkun, are you ticklish?"

"No." Gokudera valiantly drags the youth towards the door. Yamamoto starts to trail light butterfly kisses down the side of Gokudera's throat, nipping at the skin there with his teeth and laughing when Gokudera chokes a little. "Now stop that," he hisses as Yamamoto begins licking his neck.

"But I don't wanna."

He bristles and Yamamoto vaguely realizes that someone is groping Gokudera's ass. He sobers fractionally, his hand curling into an impulsive fist as he gets ready to punch the bastard's virginity into the next hemisphere. It turns out he doesn't have to because Gokudera leans back, drives his elbow into the guy's solar plexus, viciously knees him in the face, and pops his leg out to kick him where the sun don't shine.

Gokudera leaves him howling on the floor and steps outside to hail a cab.

"Whoa, Gokkun, that was… kind of freaky…" Yamamoto slurs.

"Where to?" queries the cab driver hesitantly, a handsome young man with brown hair and hazel eyes.

"Uh…" Gokudera clicks Yamamoto's seat belt into place for him and watches blandly as the youth immediately makes himself comfortable in his lap, wrapping a lanky arm around his waist and squeezing him tight. He finally gives the driver his own address and tries to shift into a better seat as the taxi rolls from the curb. Yamamoto mumbles something in protest and Gokudera resorts to staring moodily out the tinted windows at the street lights whizzing by.

Without thinking, he threads his fingers through Yamamoto's hair, twisting an ebony lock around his pinky and smoothing it back with his hand. He stops his ministrations abruptly when he remembers this is Yamamoto, and he withdraws his arm resolutely, pretending not to hear Yamamoto's dissatisfied grunt at its absence.

Yamamoto sneaks a peek at Gokudera. He can't see much through his foggy kaleidoscope perspective, but that's when he realizes the scowling teen is real.

It hits him then, like a bolt of lightning from one of Lambo's horns.

Rain cannot survive without Storm.

Hibari had said this, but he had meant that Rain--Yamamoto, was in love with Storm--Gokudera. Rain was in love with Storm, therefore, Rain couldn't survive without Storm.

Yamamoto misses the complete irony of how he is able to figure this out when he is intoxicated, while he hadn't known crap when he was sober.

He loves Gokudera.

He loves him.

Yamamoto hardly recalls the trip to Gokudera's apartment. All he can think of is how ethereal Gokudera's hands are and how the moonlight captures the flawless plane of his unblemished face.

"Goku… kun…"

"Be quiet," Gokudera grumbles, pulling off Yamamoto's shoes and dumping him face first onto a mattress.

Well, Yamamoto considers, that's an improvement from "shut up".

"I…"

Gokudera throws a blanket over his back. "Don't talk. It causes me pain."

But wait, I love you, is what Yamamoto wants to say, but then he is sinking into a deliciously soft pillow and his dreams swallow him up.

Gokudera stands in the center of the bleached white room, looking distant. His eyes are vacant. Dead.

Yamamoto approaches cautiously, warmly. He gathers the boy into his arms and holds him close, impossibly close. He understands now. He rubs circles into Gokudera's spine, kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose. He gently presses his mouth to his lips, his gaze tender when he withdraws.

"I love you," he murmurs.

Something ignites in Gokudera's blank stare.

"I love you."

His eyes flicker with recognition.

"I love you, Gokudera Hayato. I love you."

Yamamoto has to step backwards to support the weight pushing on his chest and the dazzling sensation of soothing lips on his. It is the first time Gokudera has initiated a kiss and Yamamoto is thrilled, his heart fit to burst. He kisses back, wrapping his arms around that lithe, trim waist and all around him, the white walls of the bare room obliterate, shattering outwards.

Sunlight streams through, flooding his vision, and they are in a meadow, a vast meadow, filled with flowers and life and nature. The sky stretches above them, endless and royal, and Yamamoto is laughing, truly laughing.

"I love you, Hayato!" he shouts to the earth, and pulls Gokudera down on top of him as he falls in a joyous heap on the sweet-scented grass. Gokudera smiles a quirky little smile that makes Yamamoto's chest swell with accomplishment and devotion. Every hurt he has experienced, every injustice he has suffered--they don't exist because they have been healed completely, as if all the scars on his heart have dissolved themselves out of his inner core, vanishing like ashes in the wind.

"I love you," Yamamoto says again, breathless.

Gokudera kisses him.

"You're an idiot."

It is the middle of the night when Yamamoto submerges from his slumber, refreshed and invigorated. He blinks away the last traces of his drunken stupor and is pleasantly surprised to discover that he has no hangover. The next thing he realizes is that he is in Gokudera's bed, and he sniffs the covers, smiling because they smell just like Gokudera. He relishes this fact for a moment or two, and then he rolls over to face the opposite side of the room.

Gokudera is sitting in a chair, his feet propped up on his desk as he dozes off. He hasn't bothered to change out of his clothes and for the first time, Yamamoto can clearly see the extent of his fatal attraction. His amber eyes drink in the curvature of Gokudera's neck and the subtle dip of his collarbone, lingering on the expanse of his chest his flimsy tank top so teasingly reveals. His lips are slightly parted, simply begging to be touched, and Yamamoto sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and standing soundlessly. He pads across the distance between them, which is a lovely mistake--Gokudera's seductiveness increases statistically the nearer he gets.

He reaches out to caress the side of his cheek and Gokudera's eyes snap open.

"What are you doing?"

Yamamoto cracks a small smile. "Kiss me."

Gokudera gives him a glaring squint. "…Are you still drunk?"

"No," laughs Yamamoto, leaning over to brush his jaw against hair the color of stars. "Kiss me."

Gokudera's breathing hitches and he tries to back away but he is caught between the chair and Yamamoto, and he ends up falling. He braces himself for the impact. There is none, or at least none he can distinguish.

Yamamoto stares down at him concernedly. Gokudera is flat on his back, the carpet cool through his clothes. His legs are splayed apart and Yamamoto is leaning between them, his arms on either side of his head. It makes Gokudera feel trapped and his thoughts flit briefly, wildly, to the time before he met Tsuna, when he was a lone wolf, untrusting and mistrusted. He is cornered, he thinks uneasily. There is no way out.

"You okay?" Yamamoto murmurs, and his breath ghosts fleetingly over Gokudera's skin.

"…Get off me."

Yamamoto blinks at the sudden harshness in his tone. "What's the matter?"

"Get off."

Yamamoto frowns darkly. "Make me."

Gokudera moves to shove him away but Yamamoto just lets himself fall on top of the slim youth, pinning him down with his weight.

"Hey--that's cheating--" Gokudera growls, and Yamamoto chuckles.

"I'm not moving until you talk to me."

"No."

"Yes."

"Stop--just stop."

"What? What am I doing? Tell me." Yamamoto's broad chest is glued to Gokudera's own, a stifling heat that resonates, humming with each deep, serious word the boy utters. He is everywhere, everything, and Gokudera is confined, imprisoned, caged.

And all of a sudden, it is too much for him. Far too much.

"Fine!" he snarls bitterly. "I can't… I can't do this anymore. You're driving me fucking insane. I shouldn't be obsessing this much over you, I know I shouldn't, but I am, and I can't stop. I'm…" He pauses, takes a shaky breath. "Ever since that day… When you kissed me… I felt weak. I felt helpless. The only person I've ever accepted was the Tenth, but with you, it… scared me. I was vulnerable, and I didn't like it. So I retaliated by ignoring you. I figured maybe if I blew you off everything might go back to normal. But then I quit smoking. And the withdrawal symptoms were flippin' hell. I fought to keep my mind off things. Thought maybe… I don't know."

The words are leaking out of him now, a frenzied rush he can't control.

"But after I lost to Hibari, he told me, 'Storm cannot survive without Rain'. I didn't think much of it then, just kept on avoiding you. Then that day in the cafeteria… I hated being so defenseless. I hated having you be the one to see me like that. It was… frustrating. So when I woke up and saw you sitting there, watching me…"

Gokudera is trembling in careful increments, his body limp beneath Yamamoto's still form.

"I'm sorry," he says thickly. "I didn't mean what I said… back then."

Yamamoto strokes his hair empathetically.

"And then…" Gokudera halts, chuckles mirthlessly. "This is stupid," he mutters brashly. "You don't care."

"No," Yamamoto insists. "No, I do." He leans back and clasps Gokudera's head in his hands. "Because…" He stares straight into his eyes. "I love you."

Gokudera tenses. "Oh. God." He starts laughing suddenly, the sound painful and forced and cold.

Yamamoto is alarmed. "…Gokudera?"

"This is…" Gokudera's eyes have turned bleak and lifeless, shockingly similar to the transparent gaze of the dream Gokudera. It is frightening. "This is all a joke, isn't it?"

"No, never," Yamamoto objects, adamant. "I love you."

"Yeah, how many times have you told that to Chrome?" Gokudera snarls resentfully, and the hostility in his voice undulates to an echoing growl that clashes with the jarring silence in the room.

And Yamamoto finally understands.

"Oh. Oh, oh Gokudera, Gokudera." Smiling kindly, he tilts Gokudera's chin up and kisses him so gently, so affectionately, that Gokudera is stunned into speechlessness. "Chrome and I… we were never really…" He laughs a little, softly. "That's my fault. She told me to give you time and I thought asking her to be my girlfriend would help speed up the process. The plan backfired, though, when Ryohei-sempai kissed you. I never knew that would happen…"

Gokudera stares at him, wide-eyed.

"You…"

And he just looks so edible that Yamamoto has to steal another kiss from his endearing lips.

"Hibari and Reborn told me that Rain couldn't survive without Storm," he whispers, and they both glance at each other's glittering Vongola rings. They sparkle in the light, an everlasting bond that connects Rain to Storm and Storm to Rain. "I finally figured out that they meant I was in love with you."

Gokudera gazes up at him. "They also said that Storm had to learn the necessity of Rain."

Yamamoto begins grazing his lips across bare skin, tasting the sinful luxury of Gokudera's flesh. His voice is hushed, teasing. "Well… did you?"

Gokudera tangles his fingers in Yamamoto's silky hair. "You tell me," he murmurs, and kisses him.

In his haste to get to the bed, Yamamoto trips over the fallen chair and lands on the mattress, where all the blankets slide off and he is dumped on the other side with a muffled "Ow!". Gokudera barks a laugh and crawls over because honestly, they've had enough waiting and they were never good at pretending anyways.

"You're such a loser," he muses ruefully, and suddenly he knows what he's supposed to say next.

"…I love you," Gokudera whispers, and Yamamoto nearly breaks his neck tackling the teen down onto the bed and ravishing him like there is no tomorrow.

Yamamoto's fingers seem clumsy as he fumbles with Gokudera's belt. Gokudera watches in amusement as the sword-wielder frowns, tugging uselessly at the straps.

"Why do you even need these?" he asks, exasperated, and Gokudera tides him over with a chuckle, a kiss, and a smack upside the head.

"You're supposed to undo the buttons first, moron."

Yamamoto figures it out soon enough--after all, he has always been a quick learner--and he finds his heart is pounding extraordinarily fast, slamming repeatedly into his chest and making his hands shake as he trails them down Gokudera's thrumming body. Gokudera is breathing short and fast, biting his lip and kissing Yamamoto to take his mind off the erotic touches fluttering over his skin.

"Ahnnn…"

"I bet my dad's worried about me," Yamamoto mumbles, working at ridding Gokudera of his clothing.

Gokudera undoes the fastenings on Yamamoto's shirt with deft twists of his dexterous fingers. He flings it somewhere across the room and grabs him around the neck to drag them closer together.

"Okay," he breathes. "Rule Number One: don't ever mention your dad when we're trying to have sex."

Yamamoto grins wolfishly, planting a huge hickey on the side of Gokudera's neck. Gokudera looses a rough gasp, arching his spine, and bucks his hips up.

Gokudera is like a whole orchestra of music, Yamamoto thinks. He explores him thoroughly, touching and testing and eliciting soft whimpers from his throat. He finds that his ears are his weak spot; one breathy lick near them and Gokudera is reduced to a puddle of melodious moans.

"Asshole," Gokudera hisses as Yamamoto extends a hand farther down his stomach, lazily tracing circles around his hipbone.

Yamamoto smiles. "I know."

"If you don't hurry up and screw me right now, I might just do it myself," Gokudera purrs sensually, and Yamamoto falls off the bed in total shock.

"Holy shit! Yamamoto, you okay?"

"Yeah… yeah, I'm fine…" Yamamoto rubs his head, then stops in awe. "Hey… You said my name!"

Gokudera groans, propping himself up on one elbow.

"You've got ten seconds to get me hard again or else I'm going to the bathroom to jack off."

Yamamoto doesn't need to be told twice.

"This is family," Reborn says simply. "This is what a family is."

Tsuna blinks, puzzled. "What do you mean, Reborn?" He gazes down from the school rooftop at Gokudera and Yamamoto as they walk to the baseball field.

"Bonds like these make a family stronger." Reborn appears peaceful, content even. "It is high time for you to create one as well, Tsuna."

Tsuna watches his two best friends, still uncomprehending. "What are you saying, Reborn?" He turns around, but his tutor is gone. "E-eh? Reborn? Where…"

He sighs and returns to staring out at the field.

Yamamoto says something to Gokudera, and the smaller teen shrugs. Tsuna notices that he is limping and wonders what happened. Probably another gang fight, he thinks worriedly. He should ask Gokudera about that later. He watches fondly as the pair continue to chat. Then, to his surprise, Yamamoto tries to hold Gokudera's hand. Gokudera smacks him away with a baseball glove he is carrying and raises his arm, distancing his index finger and thumb a millimeter apart.

Tsuna can barely make out the words as they form on Gokudera's scowling mouth:

I am this close to shoving a bomb up your ass.

And Yamamoto only smiles and laughs and slings a friendly arm around his shoulders:

I love you too, Hayato.

Flustered and blushing, Gokudera fumes and starts ranting about the usage of his first name but amazingly, he lets Yamamoto's arm stay where it is. Tsuna stands there, pondering, deep in thought.

"Bonds like these make a family stronger."

Tsuna watches them head to the pitcher's mound, watches Gokudera help Yamamoto practice batting even though he hates baseball, watches how they communicate with the faintest of nods and the altering of expressions in their youthful faces. He observes the subtle way they convey their approval; Yamamoto with gentle smiles that delay on his lips and Gokudera with gruff, curt inclinations of his head that merely acknowledge. They seem comfortable in the other's presence, accustomed to this sort of company.

A wholesome, modest grin graces Tsuna's mouth as realization dawns.

Yamamoto stretches and ambles towards Gokudera, dropping his baseball bat. He plants a sloppy kiss on the corner of his lover's lips and nimbly dodges the punch that is aimed for his head, laughing.

Gokudera frowns severely and shoves him back by his shoulder, saying something.

If you want it, do it right, is what Tsuna sees, and the smiling brunette studies the clouds as Gokudera proceeds to show Yamamoto exactly what he means.

"I never knew I was in love until he started loving me back."

This is family.

"For me, it is many things. It is the way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he shines."

This is what a family is.

"It is better to have loved and lost… Wait, is that how the quote goes?"

This…

"You're an idiot."

This is love.

-x-

The End

A/N: Thanks for reading. ^^ Spread the love! Reviews are appreciated. Flames, not as much. :)

Gokudera: Yamamoto.
Yamamoto: What?
Gokudera: You. Me. Bedroom. Now.
Yamamoto: Eh, wha-what are you doing with those handcuffs--
Gokudera: Now.
Yamamoto: Um… okay…
Me: Whoo free porn! *sits in tree with binoculars*