Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Lest Things Become Predictable ❯ One-Shot

A/N: I can't believe I wrote this. Roughly 7200 words of utter ridiculousness. Orz Inspired by fellow lj'er pollinia's fic The Way to a Man's Heart which made me wonder. How would Gokudera react to that? This is not a continuation. Completely different circumstances; I was simply inspired. Then the idea took on a life of its own. omg. >.> Also, lame cameo is lame, but I couldn't help it. XD Beta'd by the lovely and wonderful yira_heerai. Thanks, sweetie! *smooches*

Pairings: Gokudera/Yamamoto, slight Bianchi/Yamamoto and a mention of Ryohei the ladies man lol

Warnings: het, yaoi, language, dysfunctional siblings

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I don't own KHR. I just like putting them in stressful situations.

 

--

 

“Heh. Remember when you used to fight with everyone over being the Right Hand?”

 

Yamamoto waves a bottle of lotion in his direction and flashes a huge, cheeky grin, like he's just said the most hilariously witty thing of his life - and Gokudera grudgingly supposes he probably has. He still makes a face and punches the idiot in the shoulder, because that's what he does, what they do. That, and comments like that just deserve it, cause damn.

 

“You need to quit hanging around that Varia asshole before you become even more an embarrassment than you already are.” The corner of his mouth curls up anyway despite his disdain.

 

Turning his attention back toward the shelf in front of him - Spring rain? Shower fresh? - he pulls the caps off one by one and sniffs. In the peripheral, he can see Yamamoto absently pick a box up from the shelf and quickly return it, still beaming. Further down the aisle, a couple of kids that had been whining incessantly about the toys they want have blessedly fallen silent.

 

Gokudera crinkles his nose and puts the items back. This isn't a supply run, per se. The friends of The Family they're staying with for two weeks - acquaintances of Reborn who've built a training facility even Spanner would cream his pants over - have people that take care of that sort of thing, keeping the bathrooms and pantry stocked. But he doesn't like the soap they buy or the snack cakes, and his deodorant is dreadfully low - to the point the plastic container started scraping this morning. So here he is at the nearest grocery store with a basket full of miscellaneous items hooked over his forearm and Yamamoto, who'd claimed boredom, whispering crude jokes in his ear on the personal hygiene aisle. Wonderful.

 

With a shake his head, he drops his usual brand in the basket and brushes past the rain guardian and the angry mother a few feet away glaring at him from behind her shopping cart. The two small boys circling her and the cart like savages are now punching each other and giggling about bad words. Psh. Like it's his fault her kids are brats.

 

He can hear Yamamoto on his heels, whistling long and loud as they round the corner. “There you go again, upsetting people.” He laughs then, but Gokudera ignores it.

 

It could be worse, he figures. Ryohei could've tagged along like he did a month ago back in Namimori, hitting on everything with tits and then having the audacity to drag him into the middle of it. As if he'd been even remotely interested. Gokudera had narrowly escaped a double date with the annoying jock and the two chicks he'd met on the snack isle. That alone had been punishment enough, but then Lawn-head had gone and asked the cashier for condoms, the freakin' economy pack! And really, the last thing Gokudera ever wanted to speculate on was the hyperactive sun guardian's sex life, real or imaginary.

 

He shudders at the memory as they make their way to the express checkout. There's no line at least, and for that he's grateful. It's while the cashier is retrieving his carton of cigarettes from the overhead rack that Gokudera notices the candy bar that has somehow made its way into his basket. With a raised eyebrow, he glances imploringly at Yamamoto.

 

“What? I'll pay you back,” he offers in explanation as he grabs a tabloid from the rack and starts flipping through it.

 

Briefly, Gokudera considers nailing the idiot in the side of the head with the candy, the added bonus of which includes saving Yamamoto's already plummeting IQ from - he tilts his head and squints at the headline - Alien Invaders Married My Dog! With a long-suffering sigh, he ultimately decides it too much trouble.

 

He swipes his debit card wondering when exactly during the three years they've known each other they reached this supposed level of familiarity.

 

--

 

They make it back to the Takata mansion easily enough. It's hard to get lost in rural areas like this when your destination is hillside and visible from the town marketplace. These small towns where no one sneezes without someone else knowing about it are interesting in ways. The locals may not know the details of their stay, but they usually understand enough - who they're with and what that implies - to turn the other cheek and avoid conflict. It also goes without saying that local law enforcement is on the payroll. The Tenth boss of the Vongola and his guardians aren't exactly incognito, but they're far from danger here. Not that he was ever worried, of course.

 

Yamamoto finishes his candy bar and starts sucking the melted chocolate off his fingertips as they pull into the drive. Gokudera's grip on the steering wheel tightens as he casts a sideway glance at his passenger.

 

“Get some manners, will ya?”

 

Predictably, he laughs. “I don't have anything to wipe my hand on. Sorry.”

 

A smile, an eye roll. Gokudera cuts off the engine and grabs his bag.

 

When he steps out of the car but doesn't follow, Yamamoto asks, “You coming?”

 

He shakes his head and lights a cigarette. Instead, his feet take him out into the adjoining courtyard. It's Friday, and they've only been here since Wednesday. So far, it's been tolerable. Gokudera's never been to this part of Japan before. It's warmer here, and he can smell sea air with their location a few short miles from the shore. It vaguely reminds him of another life, of time spent at Italian beaches, which normally... well, but this place still retains enough of its foreign charm, despite the handful of similarities. He finds it oddly comforting, leaning back against the stone wall as the late afternoon sun soaks into his skin and the smoke warms his throat.

 

It's tranquil here, unlike the city. The sounds of gulls and leaves dancing in the breeze are all he can hear at the moment. He can almost pretend he's not stuck in a house with most of the Famiglia and the chaos that tends to follow them, that he's on vacation with the Tenth, lazing around on the beach, throwing shells in the water… and then he pictures Yamamoto showing up with sunblock, and well, he supposes he might as well stay since he's such a fucking tag-along he even shows up uninvited in Gokudera's daydreams.

 

And then there's a crash from inside followed by shrieking and a very loud someone shouting 'Lambo!' He snorts, the moment broken. He crushes the butt under his shoe and goes back inside.

 

--

 

Gokudera doesn't complain about being an errand boy, not when it's for the Tenth. It's not like anyone else had hung around after dinner keeping Tsuna company. It's only natural for him to end up being the one to play messenger, especially with Reborn overworking the Tenth to the point of excess again.

 

Even so, he can't help but be a little annoyed anyway. What's the point of having a cell phone if Yamamoto's just gonna leave it off all the time?

 

He grabs the knob and, without knocking, pushes the door open. “Yo, idi...” He blinks, and the cigarette falls from his mouth, forgotten. Yamamoto's in bed, and, for a split second, time pauses as the sight pounds relentlessly against Gokudera's skull, his brain outright refusing to absorb it - the long, wavy hair, the scorpion tattoo. Then she looks over her shoulder at him and panic ensues. “Urgh!” Gokudera collapses in the doorway, eyes clenched shut, as pain stabs through his abdomen.

 

Bianchi's angry screech immediately pierces his ears. “Christ, Hayato! Close the door at least.” He hears the bed creak, the sound of fabric shuffling, and then footsteps pounding toward him. He doesn't dare open his eyes for multiple reasons. “Can't you knock?!”

 

“Lock the door, for fuck's sake! How was I supposed to know you'd be in here and that you'd be... oh god. Why?”

 

Her nails bite into his bicep as she grabs him, the other hand hooking under his belt at the back of his pants, and drags him the rest of the way into the room. His face hits the carpet with a thud when she releases him, but he can't seem to care about such a minor transgression in light of everything else. The door then slams shut, and the lock clicks as she twists it. As if it matters at this point.

 

“I didn't realize I needed your permission, Hayato.” It's sarcastic, probably meant to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.

 

Suddenly, he's twelve years old again and pissed off at every thing she's ever done to him: every batch of cookies, every hidden toy, every fake concern, only now he can add every member of the Vongola she's fucked - two that he knows of, but what-the-fuck-ever. “Well, you do. Stop fucking around with the guardians, already!”

 

The air is knocked out of his lungs when she kicks him in the ribs. It would've had more effect had she been wearing shoes, but it's enough to make the room spin in his current condition.

 

“Oh, that is just like a guy! Do I tell you what to do with your personal life? Or hell, to get a personal life that doesn't involve 'The Tenth?'”

 

He could say the same thing, really. She should still be in Italy, far away from him, his life, his family. But he's been telling her this for three, long years, and it hasn't managed to sink in yet. And maybe his disorder is sucking some of the anger from him, because instead of launching into his usual tirade, he says the first smart-ass thing to come to mind. “Thank you for the enlightening feminist perspective.”

 

Naturally, she kicks him again. “Fucking brat.”

 

A coughing fit overcomes him briefly, but Gokudera sucks it up and forcefully regains his composure. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself into a sitting position. His stomach lurches again, and he has to take a few deep, slow breaths to keep from losing his dinner all over the floor. When everything seems to stabilize slightly a few moments later, he dares to crack an eye toward the third person in the room.

 

Yamamoto looks confused and a little apprehensive. With a pillow in his lap - Bianchi must have the sheet; Gokudera isn't stupid enough to check - and a hand razing already wild hair, he's the stark contrast of innocence and obscenity. His face suddenly burns.

 

And then the idiot laughs, filling the awkward silence with an equally awkward response.

 

“Come on. I'll help you back to your room,” Yamamoto says and swings his feet off the bed to reach for a discarded pair of gym shorts.

 

Gokudera growls and pushes himself to his feet, waves of nausea be damned. “I can manage.” With that, he stumbles to the door and pauses, gripping the knob to steady himself. There's an undeniable thrill that pours over him, tugging his lips into a smirk, as he relays Tsuna's message. “Tenth wants to see you, though, ASAP.”

 

--

 

Gokudera rarely trains with others, so avoiding Yamamoto over the weekend is easy enough. (Okay, so there may have been an excessive amount of texting to the Tenth during his self-imposed exile. What of it?) It all ends abruptly Monday night when the rain guardian steps into the kitchen and freezes. Gokudera's at the table, a plate of food in front him procured after hours specifically to avoid incidents such as this. Inwardly he curses; outwardly, he takes another bite. If he gets up and walks out now, it'll be too obvious.

 

Yamamoto stands there a moment, then two, his shocked expression proving he hadn't expected to see him either. “Hey,” he says finally. When Hayato doesn't respond, he continues. “Haven't seen you around.” “--mad at me, are you?” “Sorry if I crossed--” It's only chops of phrases Gokudera hears, since he's busy chewing, chewing, chewing. His goal is simple: finish eating, go to bed, put as much distance between himself and the idiot as possible.

 

Yamamoto grabs a soda from the fridge and sits down across from him. “I don't have any siblings, so I don't know protocol,” he admits with an uncomfortable shrug, feelings as obvious as ever. His eyes beg forgiveness, for acceptance and everything to go back to normal. But forgiveness would mean admitting there's something wrong in the first place. Gokudera scoffs.

 

“What Bianchi does in her spare time is none of my concern.” Their eyes meet again briefly, then Gokudera cuts another piece of his stale leftovers and shoves it in his mouth. “I'd be more worried about Reborn, personally.” It's a lie - Reborn could care even less about Bianchi's extra-curricular activities than Hayato does - but it feels good to say it, to see the momentary flicker of panic in those normally happy-go-lucky eyes.

 

Yamamoto recovers quickly, though. Apparently, he and Bianchi have already had this conversation. He continues watching Gokudera and looks vaguely like he wants to say something else, but like the storm element he controls, he glares back, silently daring him. With a sigh, Yamamoto relents, and the chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands.

 

“Okay, man. I'll see ya around then.”

 

After he's gone, Gokudera turns his evil eye toward his plate. With a growl, he scrapes what's left of his food into the trash, his appetite suddenly nonexistent.

 

--

 

“Yo, Gokudera!”

 

He deflates a little the moment he hears the words. This is not the way he'd wanted to start off the morning, with Yamamoto intercepting him the second he leaves his room. He mentally prepares himself for another round of the previous night's guilt-laden, awkward apologies as the idiot once again unwelcomingly accompanies him downstairs. To his surprise, though, Yamamoto doesn't bring it up, only training, and they part ways after breakfast on almost normal terms - normal for them at any rate.

 

And when the topic doesn't resurface in the next three conversations they have, it's the equivalent of agreeing it never happened. This suits Gokudera just fine.

 

--

 

“It's been a little over a week, and most of you have been working hard. Gokudera barely came out of the training room over the weekend.”

 

Hayato's jaw clenches immediately. If that fucking baby knows something-- well.

 

It's Thursday, and Reborn has called an impromptu meeting to - apparently - discuss everyone's progress. They're in one of their hosts' sitting rooms in a completely different part of the country, but some things evidently don't change. Yamamoto's taken his usual seat next to Gokudera on the sofa. Why this has become a habit over the past couple of years, he has no idea. It's disturbing. This close, he can smell him, all sun-kissed skin and a hint of chlorine. He probably spent the afternoon at the pool instead of training. Gokudera snorts at the thought; he'd be completely unsurprised if it were true.

 

Yamamoto notices and mouths 'what?' Gokudera shakes his head in response and goes back to listening to Reborn grill Lambo as to why he's accomplished so little this week. A few minutes later, the freak's knee nudges his as he leans in closer to whisper, “Betcha he sneaked his DS in his luggage after being told not to.”

 

Gokudera frowns despite silently agreeing. He never has been able to figure out why Yamamoto just can't sit through a meeting without the constant commentary. Under normal circumstances, he'd be yelling at him to stop interrupting the Tenth or to take things seriously, but today he's doing his best to block it out completely. He has another, larger nuisance to deal with right then, one that causes him to light up another cigarette.

 

The chair across from him contains one Poison Scorpion Bianchi, sadistic beyond her mere twenty years - at least when it comes to him for some unfathomable reason. Gokudera can feel her eyes on him despite the over-sized sunglasses. The fact that she's been watching him the entire time is starting to make his skin crawl. He hasn't spoken to her since It happened, though it's not like they have anything to discuss. What he told Yamamoto was true - her business is his only inasmuch as it affects The Family. They've been somewhat civil since she came to Japan, but they're not close by any means.

 

“The new schedule will be posted this afternoon. If you wish to train longer, of course, that will not be a problem. Remember, this isn't a vacation.”

 

Reborn dismisses everyone with his usual eloquently unstated 'work harder losers,' and the other guardians slowly begin filing out of the room. Gokudera's mildly disturbed he somehow missed the entire last half of the meeting, but at the same time, he can't seem to take his eyes off Bianchi. In the peripheral, he sees Yamamoto turn toward him. There's a moment where the rain guardian glances back and forth between them before suddenly cluing in and hopping to his feet.

 

“I'm just gonna.... yeah.” He gestures vaguely at the door before all but fleeing.

 

Gokudera takes one last drag as his eyes briefly follow Yamamoto's swiftly retreating back. When he and his sister are the only two remaining, he stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table and exhales in her direction. “What?”

 

Bianchi's brow furrows, and she stares a few seconds more - as if the answers to all life's questions are stamped on his forehead. Then without a word, she simply gets up and walks away.

 

“What the fuck was that?”

 

--

 

“Are you still mad at me?”

 

Of course Bianchi wouldn't let it die that easily. He shouldn't be surprised. She's always been a pain in the ass. Gokudera decides right then that in the unfortunate and highly unlikely event he ever becomes a father, he'll promptly get a vasectomy so that no child of his suffers the tortures of an evil sibling.

 

It's Saturday, and she's managed to find him in the library. He turns the page of his book, ignoring her, because it's easy, it's what he's been doing for years now. Also the topic of conversation leaves something to be desired. As usual, though, she's having none of that. Bianchi slithers over to where he's sitting, shoves his feet off the ottoman, and sits down in front of him.

 

“I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realize I was invading your territory.”

 

She's not referring to the stolen piece of furniture, so he shuts the book and gives her his resigned attention. “What are you talking about?”

 

She laughs. “It's so obvious, Hayato! I don't know how I didn't see it before.” She's wearing a ski mask, which makes this conversation about 523 times more ridiculous than it already is. “I've been kind of suspecting the possibility you might be gay for a while. I mean, you always throw out the porn mags Shamal sends you. What teenage boy does that unless he's not interested?”

 

“How--” He cuts himself off; the depths of Bianchi's neurosis are nothing new to him. Honestly, though, he never would've pictured her to dig through his trash. “It never occurred to you that I might get tired of them? Disgusted by the old man? Or, I don't know, disillusioned by society's preoccupation with sex?”

 

With the mask showing nothing but her eyes and mouth, he can't gage her expression very well, but it's more than enough to convey her blank, disbelief.

 

Gokudera meets her gaze without waver despite this not being how he pictured coming out to anyone. To be honest, he hadn't given it much thought at all. One benefit of extreme anti-social behavior is that no one questions your lack of girlfriends, not to mention the inherent understanding that such questions would result in lit dynamite being shoved in uncomfortable places. It had been a non-issue. But for her to then imply that he's attracted to the baseball freak on top of that? He sighs and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

 

“Look, even if I decide to entertain this… deranged thought process of yours - and it is, by the way; there's probably a psychological condition for women who sleep with their brother's friends and then think the brother is jealous - you're forgetting the fact he's obviously into psychotic women.”

 

She laughs then. “Well, you've got the psychotic part down at least.”

 

And while he's recoiling indignantly at that gem of a reply, she stands up and ruffles his hair just like she used to do when he was five. Which only makes it that much worse.

 

“Quit worrying so much. You'll give yourself--” She pauses for just a second, her fingers smoothing down the mess she'd just made. “Wrinkles,” she finishes with a smirk and slinks back out of the room.

 

The exchange leaves him irritable, but there's something there under the surface, unbidden. It tugs the corner of his mouth upward, just a little.

 

--

 

He glowers and tucks the same stubborn strand of wet hair back behind his ear. Fresh from his shower, a towel drapes around Gokudera's neck catching the occasional drips as he highlights and deletes the last block of junk email with a satisfying click. It's late enough that Lambo should be asleep, and earlier he'd heard Sasagawa asking one of the Takata guards about the local night life. Their floor should be blessedly silent for the rest of the night - he'd thank the saints if he were, at all, religious.

 

Instead, he weighs his options. Sleep is tempting, but he's not really tired yet. He could watch television, but meh. There's not much that he's been interested in watching lately, and he's not in the mood to stumble across shitty writing that'll just piss him off. The same could be said for reading. Unless. His fingers type in the url - Icha Icha Men Online - before he even finishes the thought.

 

Ten minutes later, he's unconsciously worrying his lip and leaning a little closer to the screen. The protagonist - Taruno - pins his lover's hands above his head and unleashes a string of filth in his ear that makes Gokudera wonder if he might pass out from his blood abandoning his brain so quickly. Taruno's hand slides down Kasuke's chest only to stop at his waistband. He thumbs the button of his jeans, teasingly, biting Kasuke's nipple when he tries to thrust forward against his hand. Not yet, he tells him. Then there is kissing, and grinding - oh, so much delicious grinding - before finally, Taruno takes pity on both Kasuke and Gokudera by freeing the pinned male of his denim prison.

 

And then a knock at the door startles Gokudera enough that he jumps and accidentally knocks his can of soda off the desk. He crosses his legs and awkwardly folds his arms over his lap. As an afterthought, he drops the towel over the mess on the floor just as Yamamoto's head peeks in. “Massage therapist Takeshi, reporting for duty.”

 

“… the hell?!” It takes him a moment to collect himself. Then Gokudera instantly closes the smut on his computer, despite the fact that the idiot can't possibly read any of it from across the room.

 

Yamamoto steps in and shuts the door behind him, hand scratching awkwardly at the back of his head. “Bianchi told me your back was all knotted up. She asked if I could work it out for you.” He grins.

 

Gokudera stares then, the realization smacking him hard enough to almost knock him over. Bianchi is just as insane as ever and, as per previously established rules, must use every piece of ammunition possible to make his life hell. He quickly takes back any less than murderous thoughts he might have entertained throughout the day.

 

“I'm fine.” He spits the words like venom.

 

Yamamoto gives him a skeptical look. “You sure? You don't look fine. And I don't mind. Really. I've had to get my back worked on a few times before. You feel sooooo much better afterwards.”

 

Gokudera knows what he means by that statement, but it's just not helping at all. “Oh, get out.” He grabs the now empty soda can off the floor and hurls it at his head. It misses and bounces off the door frame instead. “And tell Bianchi to mind her own damn business!”

 

--

 

He wakes up even further from bright-eyed and bushy tailed than usual. This trip had started out promising, but reality somehow managed to flip on its axis a few days in. Yesterday left him with a horrible sense of foreboding (and frustration.)

 

It's only made worse when he opens his door and sees Bianchi waiting outside the restroom across the hall.

 

Gokudera sighs. She's already seen him, and he'll be damned if he's gonna let her think she has any affect whatsoever on his life. He closes his door and takes the two steps required to reach the bathroom. It's closest to his room, after all.

 

“I left my lotion in there.” She smiles and nods toward the door. “Be a dear and fetch it for me.”

 

Gokudera snorts. “I'm not your dog; get it yourself.”

 

“I can't. Yamamoto's in the shower.”

 

It seems his life is now stuck in a downward trajectory and will, in the near future, begin to fuck up his state of mind. If this had been a week and a half earlier, Gokudera would have happily barged in, taken a piss, and laughed to himself as he flushed, leaving the idiot shrieking and cursing at him. But it's not, and his patience is paper thin. What was simple annoyance at Bianchi rapidly bubbles over into indignation. “Nothing you haven't already seen.”

 

“It's not like that, Hayato. It would be inappropriate.”

 

As if she even understands the word inappropriate. “And it's not like I have any interest in this stupid game of yours.” He brushes past her. There are other toilets in this godforsaken place, damn it.

 

--

 

“So,” Yamamoto starts as he takes a seat across from Gokudera at the dining table. “Um, is Bianchi okay?”

 

Gokudera nearly chokes on his rice. His birth family is so far from okay he can't even begin to answer that. “What did she do now?”

 

“She actually said you wanted me to teach you how to bat.” Yamamoto laughs long and hard; seems even he realizes how stupid that statement is. Fortunately, it also appears he's dense enough to completely miss the double entendre. Or ignore it. Whatever.

 

Gokudera pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head slowly. Thankfully, everyone else at the table is too involved in their own noise to overhear. Chrome has her hands full with Lambo, who despite being older and slightly larger than when they first met, is still just as infuriating and refusing to eat anything green on his plate. The Tenth helps reason with the little snot while Lawn-head shouts his encouragement. Bianchi is still in the kitchen, and Hibari is as conspicuously absent as usual. Reborn simply watches it all unfold with his normal indifference.

 

Silence stretches as they each take bites of their lunch, then Yamamoto asks, “Wanna tell me what's going on?”

 

He doesn't even have to think on this answer. “No.” And if the idiot wants to push, he has no problem pushing back. Luckily, he drops it with a shrug.

 

There's another odd stretch of silence. “Hey, wanna go double up on Ryohei later? We haven't sparred with him in a while.”

 

Gokudera has to drag his mind back, kicking and screaming, from the terrible, terrible place it just went - because that's just disturbing - to roll the idea around for a moment. A fight with no weapons would be good for him, he thinks, even if it means spending more time with Yamamoto than he'd prefer at this point. And really, Lawn-head wins over a punching bag for stress relief any day. He grins. “I get first hit.”

 

--

 

Gokudera winces and rips the bandage off his cheek. Augh! Does the tape really have to take your skin with it? He drops it on the desk and uses the full length mirror on his closet door to survey the damage. He probably could've used stitches, but whatever. It's Monday night and twenty-seven hours after the fact; it's too late to do anything now. At least it's finally scabbed over. He looks like shit with the gash, busted lip, and a mother of a black eye. It hadn't stopped him from training most of the day, though, and then there's the small but enjoyable consolation that Yamamoto looks just as bad. Lawn-head really can be brutal.

 

There are three loud bangs on his door followed by Bianchi's equally loud declaration of “Coming in. You better be decent!”

 

Gokudera winces. Can't he get a moment's peace? Is it really too much to ask for?

 

She blinks and double-takes halfway into the room. “What happened to you face?”

 

“Is that really why you're here?” He flops back on the bed. Might as well be comfortable for whatever nonsense she has for him.

 

With a shrug, she shuts the door and steps further into the room, arms crossed stubbornly. “Okay, I'll get to the point. I've given you several openings, practically gift-wrapped him for you, and still nothing? I'm very disappointed, Hayato.”

 

“Oh, fuck off.” Two more days. Two days until they're on a plane back to Namimori. He doesn't know if he can wait that long.

 

“Such disrespect.”

 

He sits up and glares, putting as much venom in it he can. He's not sure how much effect it has considering his left eye's nearly swollen shut.

 

“Oh, please. I'm only trying to help.”

 

He laughs then, loud and joylessly. “Right. How could I forget? You've only been making my life better since that first batch of cookies you made me.”

 

She has the audacity to actually look hurt by that comment, as if he's the one being unreasonable. Gokudera only laughs harder.

 

--

 

It's less than five minutes after Bianchi leaves and just after he lights a cigarette that Yamamoto bursts through his door and immediately slams it shut behind him. Gokudera sighs, knowing the two instances have a 97% chance of being related.

 

“Okay, seriously? What is going on?” He's leaning against the door, as if his weight is necessary hold it shut against his imminent demise. His wary expression further lends itself to the theory there might actually be zombies in the house. Unfortunately, Gokudera's pretty sure no zombie exists that could hold its own against Bianchi.

 

“Presentable,” Yamamoto grumbles. “What is that supposed to mean? Aww, man, my shirt!”

 

Gokudera can't help it; his eyes give him a once over. Sure enough, the second shirt button from the top is missing. The idiot's hair is pretty much as disastrous as ever. But the jeans ... luckily, Yamamoto takes that moment to tug them back up, quickly covering the tantalizingly brief expanse of hip bone peeking out from over his waist band, and thus saving Gokudera from an embarrassing nosebleed incident.

 

That's when he realizes Yamamoto is not only still talking but has started pacing and throwing his arms up in frustration. “--says things that obviously means more, asks me to find you, and when I do, you won't talk to me. Whatever weird stuff is going on between the two of you, work it out. I'm done being the middleman.”

 

“Oh, shut up. You're no more the middleman than I'm Santa Claus. We're pawns, that's all.”

 

Yamamoto pauses in his meltdown and looks at him in confusion. “In what, though? None of it makes any sense.”

 

Gokudera takes a long, calming drag. “Since when has anything she's done made sense?”

 

“Why can't you just talk to me? I thought we were friends.” Yamamoto has the nerve to look frustrated.

 

His jaw clenches. “I don't have time for this.” He moves toward the door, but the idiot blocks it.

 

“Come on, man. It's weird, but at least it was kinda funny at first. It's not funny anymore, and avoiding it isn't going to make it go away.”

 

“Move.”

 

“No. Not until you give me something.”

 

So Gokudera punches him. Yamamoto looks surprised for a moment, but then his eyes narrow. He punches back, catching Gokudera's already bruised jaw. Fuck, that stings! He launches himself onto the idiot, and they slam into the wall, then the dresser, and eventually end up on the floor. They roll around, kicking and biting and strangling, trying to get the upper hand. His cigarette burns his forearm at some point before getting lost altogether in the scuffle. They come to a stop a few moments later with Yamamoto's bulk pressing him into the rug.

 

“What is your problem?” he demands. Some of the fight has left him, Gokudera notices. It only serves to piss him off more.

 

“You!” he growls and manages to flip them over. “Your cluelessness. And fucking Bianchi who won't leave anything alone.”

 

The idiot's expression changes ever so slightly. He fists Gokudera's collar. “Give me a clue then, if it bothers you so much.”

 

Gokudera stares down at him. He briefly considers pinning his arms to the floor and kissing him, considers putting his full weight down on him, because at this rate, he'll be hard in no time. Instead, he shoves himself up off him and storms out of the room.

 

Argh, fucking Bianchi! Why she's even here is still a mystery, seeing as how this training is just for the guardians. She should be back in Namimori giving the girls makeovers or something. He turns the corner and doesn't bother knocking - he's way too angry for niceties at this point. He kicks the door so hard it bounces off the doorstop and nearly swings shut again on its own.

 

“Knock it the hell off already!”

 

She's reading a magazine at her desk and uses it to shield everything but her eyes when she turns to look at him. “Not until I have evidence you at least tried.”

 

He glares at her, fists clenched, frustration and anger welling up and boiling over until he's drowning in it. “Why?”

 

She doesn't reply, but the way her eyes crinkle makes him suspect she's smiling.

 

“He's not even gay!” The urge to rip his hair out is growing by the second.

 

“Are you sure about that? Most people fall in the at least somewhat bisexual range.”

 

“Oh, goddamn it,” he wails, kicking the nearby trashcan and points at her accusingly as tissues and makeup wedges spill around his feet. “If you start quoting Kinsey at me, I swear there won't be a body left for anyone to find!”

 

She laughs, smothers it, then tilts her head in that Oh, Hayato way she adopts when she thinks he's done something truly adorable. Or ridiculous. “Look, he follows you around like a puppy. When he's just as friendly with everyone else here, it's you he wants to spend time with. Now I could be reading this entirely wrong, but maybe I'm not. Would you prefer I ask?”

 

“I'd prefer you to mind your own fucking business. Fix your own life if you need a hobby.”

 

She sighs. “Guess I'll just have to keep encouraging you from the sidelines.”

 

“You're insane.” He idly wonders how difficult it would be to have her committed. Electro-shock therapy would suit her.

 

“Anything else, dearest brother?”

 

Tch. He slams the door on the way out, just because.

 

The world is against him; there's no other fucking explanation, he realizes as he stands outside Bianchi's room, staring in utter disbelief at the baseball freak.

 

“Eavesdropping? Really?”

 

Yamamoto shrugs awkwardly. “You wouldn't talk to me.”

 

“Is it any wonder why?” Gokudera stomps back toward his own room, intent on locking himself inside and booby trapping the door against insufferable assholes - which in this family, includes pretty much everyone.

 

“Wait up, man.”

 

He spins around, and Yamamoto has to jump backward to avoid a collision. “Why, so we can talk? Fine. Bianchi's a certifiable bitch. I'm a fag, and congratulations, you've just stolen Lawn-head's title as most annoying jock! Did I leave anything out?”

 

Yamamoto's expression is grim. Gokudera's torn between wanting to crow in triumph and wanting to smack him upside the head for being a fucking baby. He almost has control of the latter urge when the moron opens his mouth again.

 

“How `bout the part where your sister's trying to hook us up?”

 

Gokudera grabs the idiot by his shirt and shoves him against the wall. “You complete waste of fucking air.” They're nose to nose; he's not even trying to shove him off. When a hint of a smile starts to form on Yamamoto's lips, Gokudera growls, his brain screaming, fuck it all, and kisses him.

 

It starts as a dry pressing of lips, more than a peck but certainly not lingering. Then Gokudera pulls back, half expecting a fist in the face. It doesn't come, though. Yamamoto's eyebrows are in the middle of his forehead, and he's staring, looking mildly shell-shocked. But he doesn't push him away, not right then or several awkwardly long seconds later, so Gokudera leans in again, this time with a little more insistence. He tilts his head more, takes Yamamoto's bottom lip between his, and suddenly, hands latch heavily onto his shoulders. They're not pushing, not pulling, just squeezing. Then Yamamoto's mouth opens and presses into his, and Gokudera lets out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding.

 

He tugs him flush against him, chest to knees, and proceeds to kiss him silly, a clash of tongues and teeth and at least two years of repression, cause yeah, he's wanted this. He can admit that much, even if it pains him to do so. Stupid, insufferable, baseball freak with his stupid smiles and his lame jokes and that fucking way he always licks his fingers clean - he's jerked off to that twice already this week, goddamn it! He catches himself griding against him, but he just can't seem to care. This is what he's wanted, and it feels good, and-

 

“Get a room, you guys. Sheesh.” Bianchi, of course, has to ruin it.

 

Gokudera pulls away for half a second, not even long enough to catch his breath, and makes a decision. “That's it. I'm gonna kill her.” He spins around, three sticks of dynamite out and ready to be lit. He only takes a single step before he's suddenly lifted up and tossed over Yamamoto's shoulder. “Hey! Put me down, asshole!”

 

“No sense in destroying half the house in the process,” Yamamoto laughs as he dashes down the hallway.

 

They don't go far, and the last thing he sees before they turn the corner and slip into a room is Bianchi smiling and waving, an annoying `I told you so' twiddling of fingers. Then they're in Gokudera's room, and he hears the door shut and the lock click - idiot has apparently learned something from all this - before he's set back down on the ground.

 

The insults are on the tip of his tongue - how dare he pull that mediating bullshit now of all times! - but Yamamoto grabs his head and reels him in for another kiss. He can't help but kiss back, even through the sting of his lip reopening. Yamamoto's hands are all over him, in his hair, down his back, clenching, squeezing them together, and he's so hard.

 

Part of him doesn't want to believe it. It's too easy, and he's waiting for the ground to fall out from under him, for Yamamoto to change his mind, to remember he's not queer, that they're family. The rest of him says fuck that. He's already unbuttoning the idiot's shirt, ecstatic that Bianchi was right even if that's one fact he's taking with him to the grave.

 

At that thought, he stops, fingers faltering on the third button. God, she's never gonna let him live this down, is she? His fists clench in the fabric, and for a brief moment, he considers just ripping the shirt off altogether. But his brain intercedes immediately with that would be cliché and you've wanted this far too long to turn it into some ridiculous smut novel. He's still tempted, though; things aren't cliché for not working. He pulls back, meets Yamamoto's hooded gaze - and goddamn if that isn't enough to make Gokudera want to shove him down on the bed and just quit thinking entirely.

 

But then the idiot laughs again, that awkward, little 'heh' he does any time he's out of his element, and says, “Hold up.”

 

Gears shift so quickly, they might have broken. There's a long pause, then with a sigh, he adjusts the bulge in his pants and sits down on the bed behind him. His cigarettes call to him from the nightstand, but he ignores them. “Look--” he starts, gesturing so vaguely even he's not sure what it's supposed to mean.

 

“Whoa. Hey, I'm not changing my mind.”

 

Surprisingly intuitive for a jock, Gokudera thinks smugly. A raised eyebrow asks, “Then?”

 

The idiot shrugs - and no, he's not looking at the tent in his pants; no way. “I've just never... you know.”

 

Gokudera rolls his eyes. He could say 'I know that' or 'It's not all that different' or 'You could be my right hand' or 'You can...' But he doesn't. Instead, he laughs, evil and demented, perfect for a genius such as himself, because he's just figured out how Bianchi's gonna pay for this week and justify Lawn-head's existence beyond that of a training dummy in one swoop. He can't fucking wait. Except he can, because Yamamoto's lips are swollen, his pants are still tented, and it doesn't appear he's going to flee the room screaming any time soon.

 

Gokudera shakes his head. “Just stop talking.”

 

He laughs again, hand nervously filing through his hair, but agrees. “Okay.”

 

So he grabs him by the belt and pulls Yamamoto down on top of him, because he's so far beyond nerves at this point it doesn't even matter.

 

They figure it out easily enough - Yamamoto's shirt does make it to the floor, all remaining buttons in tact - with only a single disagreement (a personal record for them, really.)

 

“Yes, a condom. You fucked my sister!”

 

Yamamoto freezes, guilt-stricken all over again, and Gokudera growls, intent on stopping this before it can get out of hand this time. He pulls him back down for another kiss, something like forgiveness in a tongue, a hand squeezing his cock.

 

 

End.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Omake:

 

“But sis, I only want what's best for you.”

 

“What's best for me does not involve anything including the word 'extreme'!”

 

“You sure? If anyone is willing to go above and beyond, ya know...”

 

Bianchi mirrors his big, Cheshire cat grin as she slips off her goggles.

 

“Urgh! I hate you!”

 

--

 

A/N part 2: This was not supposed to be a Bianchi-plays-matchmaker fic, a coming out fic, or a (sort of) get together fic. No, I don't know what happened. I apologize. Orz Also, cookies to anyone who knows how many f-bombs were dropped in here. xD