Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3737734.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Gokudera_Hayato/Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Character:
      Gokudera_Hayato, Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Birthday_Cake, Birthday_Presents, Cooking, No
      Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Fluff, Blow_Jobs, Day_8
      -_Birthday_(Cake)
  Collections:
      8059/5980_Week
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-24 Words: 4645
****** Sugar ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Everything took longer than Gokudera expected, cooking and baking
     and cooling, and he kept having to do emergency shopping runs, for
     the vanilla he somehow forgot to buy the day before and then the
     lemons he didn’t think about and then for sugar, more sugar, how much
     sugar can one recipe call for?" Gokudera makes Yamamoto a birthday
     present and Yamamoto loves it.
It’s well past noon by the time Gokudera makes it to Yamamoto’s place. He had
intended to be there in the morning, an hour or two before lunch, hopefully, or
maybe during the lunch rush itself so he could drop off the box heavy in his
hands and make his escape. But everything took longer than he expected, cooking
and baking and cooling, and he kept having to do emergency shopping runs, for
the vanilla he somehow forgot to buy the day before and then the lemons he
didn’t think about and then for sugar, more sugar, how much sugar can one
recipe call for? By the time he finally has everything ready to go it’s going
on three in the afternoon, the sun warm and glowing at an angle instead of high
overhead, and he’s so stressed for time he doesn’t take the shower he was
planning on. He just takes the box and goes, too tight-wound with the hours of
lost time to overthink what he’s doing as he makes his way down the streets
connecting his apartment to TakeSushi.
There’s no sign of the party he half-dreaded dealing with in the front of the
shop; in fact everything is remarkably quiet, even the restaurant no busier
than usual when he eases the door open to step into the shaded interior.
There’s just the few lingering afternoon guests, Tsuyoshi himself behind the
counter, and no sign of Yamamoto anywhere in the space.
“Hey there, Gokudera,” Tsuyoshi offers, and Gokudera jumps like he’s been
shocked, surprised as he always is by Yamamoto’s father recognizing him. “You
looking for Takeshi?”
“No,” Gokudera starts, denial too reflexive for him to catch immediately. He
stalls, hesitates, feels himself going crimson, and corrects, “Yes,” with far
less grace than he wishes he could manage. “He’s out?”
It would be easier if he were out. Now that he’s here Gokudera can’t imagine
handing the box in his hands over to Yamamoto in person; far better to leave it
for him to come home to, after the baseball game he is undoubtedly playing. The
box will do a good enough job on its own, it’s not like Gokudera needs to wish
the other boy a happy birthday, and really it’ll be better if he--
“Not at all,” Tsuyoshi says, and Gokudera’s stomach plummets in the rush of
panic in his veins. “Go on up.” Then, before Gokudera can formulate an excuse
to leave the box and retreat anyway: “Takeshi!” loud and up the stairs. “You
have a visitor!”
Gokudera can’t make out the words of the response; there’s just an incoherent
burble of sound, carrying more the tone of excitement than clear language. It’s
still enough to shiver anticipation and nerves under his skin, the
inevitability of actually seeing Yamamoto settling into him, and then Tsuyoshi
is gesturing up the stairs and there is nothing for it but to go up them,
albeit as slowly as Gokudera can manage. By the time he makes it to Yamamoto’s
door he’s shaking with tension, feeling like every muscle in him is trying to
cramp at once, and if it weren’t for Yamamoto opening the door before Gokudera
can knock he thinks he might stay frozen there for another hour.
It’s a little overwhelming, to get the full force of Yamamoto’s smile all at
once. It sends Gokudera’s breathing rushing out of him, tightens his forehead
in what is nearly a cringe of pain, but Yamamoto doesn’t wait for him to
recover himself. He’s laughing in delight, chirping “Gokudera!” with all his
usual joy audible on every syllable. “I was hoping you’d come by!”
“Of course I was gonna come,” Gokudera growls. He doesn’t know why his tone
drops lower as Yamamoto’s gets happier; it seems to be some kind of forced
response, like he’s attempting to compensate for the other boy’s joy by the
application of his own irritation. “It’s your birthday, I don’t really have a
choice about it.”
“Aww, of course you have a choice!” Yamamoto steps away from the door, the easy
motion pulling Gokudera forward into the room as effectively as if he had been
ordered. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you today.”
“Making your stupid present took longer than I expected,” Gokudera snaps. It’s
not until the words are past his lips and Yamamoto is turning back to stare at
him that he realizes what he’s said and starts to flinch back from the other’s
exclamation.
“You made me a present?” Yamamoto says, soft and shocked and thrilled, and
Gokudera has to look away from the light in his eyes before he loses his grip
on his own composure.
“Here,” he says instead, looking down as he thrusts the box unceremoniously
towards Yamamoto’s chest. “Just. Take them.”
“Huh?” Yamamoto’s hands close at the bottom of the box, take it out of
Gokudera’s forced casual grasp like it’s something magical and revered. “What
is it?”
“You have the fucking box in your hands,” Gokudera growls, crossing his arms
now that they’re free. “Open it yourself, it’s supposed to be a surprise.” His
heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing going tight in his throat as he
watches Yamamoto balance the box on one hand so he can tug at the folded-over
top. What seemed like a good idea a week ago feels like a horrible mistake,
now, with his fingers still faintly sticky with sugar he couldn’t seem to wash
off and the evidence of his effort in Yamamoto’s hands. But it’s too late to
snatch it back now, impossible to offer something else when this is all he has;
all he can do is to start with a “Sorry, it’s stupid,” as Yamamoto gets the top
open and sees what’s inside.
“Oh,” Yamamoto says, his exclamation cutting off Gokudera’s words as if it’s
sliced through the other’s vocal chords. “Oh, gosh, Hayato.”
“Don’t!” Gokudera snaps, turns away before he can see the expression on
Yamamoto’s face. He shoves the door shut with more force than necessary, slams
it into place in the frame and keeps a hand against the wood as he turns back.
“Don’t call me that when we’re--” And then there is a hand in his hair,
baseball-callused fingers tangling into his hair, and Yamamoto’s mouth at his
proves precisely as effective as words at stopping Gokudera’s protest.
Gokudera is too dazed to recover right away when Yamamoto pulls back, still
lulled into shocked stillness just by the fingers in his hair and the warmth of
the other’s hand against the side of his neck. And Yamamoto is smiling, bright
and wide all over his face like he can’t contain his happiness, laughing in
place of breathing when he leans in to bump his nose to Gokudera’s.
“Thank you,” he says, sounding so incandescently pleased Gokudera can’t resist
the urge to smile that hits him, that starts to turn up the corners of his
mouth without his intention. “I can’t believe you made cupcakes for me, thank
you so much.”
“I don’t even know if they’re any good,” Gokudera protests, but it sounds weak
and it’s undermined by the pause he has to take to grab at Yamamoto’s shirt, to
turn his head up for a breathlessly quick kiss. “I’ve never tried cooking these
before.”
“They’ll be delicious,” Yamamoto enthuses with the astonishing faith he always
musters in the face of a complete lack of evidence. “Will you help me eat
them?”
Gokudera makes a face. “They’re for you, idiot, I don’t even like sweets that
much.”
“Please,” Yamamoto says, and he’s letting his hand slide from Gokudera’s hair
to the other’s wrist, closing his fingers and tugging as he backs towards the
bed like the physical urging will persuade the other to stay. He doesn’t need
to; his eyes are already making more than enough of a case for him, the blown-
wide glow of them entangling Gokudera until he’s helpless to whatever Yamamoto
might ask of him, even if he puts up a token protest of a groan and an eye-roll
as he comes in.
“You have to try them first,” he insists, sitting on the very edge of the bed
while Yamamoto slides back to cross his legs under him so he can lean in over
the box with every appearance of delighted excitement. “I’ll try a bite
of one.”
“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, warm and bubbling over with joy. “Why are they all
different?”
Gokudera clears his throat, looks away even though Yamamoto is peering into the
box and not looking up at him at all. “I didn’t know what flavors you would
like best,” he says while gazing with complete focus at the glossy poster of
some baseball player hanging on the wall. “So there’s a bunch of different
ones.”
“Hayato,” Yamamoto says, drawing the other’s name out slow and shocked on his
tongue. “You did all that? How long did it take?”
“Shut up,” Gokudera growls, looks back at the box without meeting Yamamoto’s
eyes. “Just try one already so we can agree they’re terrible.” He can feel his
cheeks burning, embarrassment winding hot through his veins, but for once
Yamamoto actually listens to him. Gokudera watches the angle of his fingers as
he reaches in to extricate a cupcake from the array of options, fights back the
urge to smile at the little plaintive hum Yamamoto makes when his fingers catch
frosting off the adjacent cakes. By the time he actually has a cupcake free his
fingertips are smeared into a rainbow of frosting, yellow and pink picked up in
addition to the plain-vanilla white of the cupcake he pulled out first.
Gokudera is stuck watching that, staring at the color across Yamamoto’s skin
like it will protect him from the rejection that feels inevitable as Yamamoto
eats half the cupcake in one bite.
There’s a pause, a moment of tension Gokudera can feel aching all along his
spine, and he’s looking away before he can see Yamamoto’s reaction, framing a
growling apology before the other’s mouth is free enough to speak. “It’s fine,
you don’t have to eat the rest, it was a stupid idea in the first place.”
Yamamoto makes a sound, muffled and unintelligible, and Gokudera looks up
reflexively to see him shaking his head with as much vehemence as he’s ever
seen from the other boy. His eyes are wide, shocked into golden glow, and as
Gokudera stares at him he swallows, clears his mouth enough to say,
“It’s delicious.”
“It is not,” Gokudera blurts in instinctive rejection. “You don’t have to try
to make me feel better, I--”
“No,” Yamamoto interrupts, and the negation is rare enough on the other’s lips
that Gokudera goes still and shocked-silent for a moment. Yamamoto is shaking
his head, taking another bite of the cupcake and talking through the mouthful.
“It’s good.”
“No way,” Gokudera scoffs, and Yamamoto reaches out, offers the last bite
pressed between fingertips still sticky with multi-colored frosting. Gokudera
draws back from the motion, feels his forehead creasing into skeptical
disbelief, and Yamamoto makes a plaintive noise, reaches in farther.
“I don’t even like cake,” Gokudera attempts, a desperate protest that is
submission even as he says it, and Yamamoto swallows, licks the frosting
clinging to his mouth off his lips as he points out, “You said one bite, you
said you’d try it.”
“I didn’t mean for you to feed it to me,” Gokudera groans, but he did promise,
even if it was rash and unthinking, and he can’t keep his gaze off Yamamoto’s
fingers for any length of time. It seems better to give in quickly rather than
lose face by drawing out the inevitable conclusion longer than it needs to be,
so he leans in even as he’s frowning at this deviation from his expectations,
takes the promised bite from the frosting-sticky catch of Yamamoto’s
fingertips.
It’s sweet, of course, as overwhelming at first taste as Yamamoto’s
cheerfulness can be. But the frosting is rich, buttery and flavored with the
vanilla Gokudera had to go out to buy, and in the first rush of flavor Gokudera
can’t help the little whimper of appreciation that comes up his throat. There’s
a shudder of satisfaction running through his whole body, a reaction too
immediate to call back, and Yamamoto is drawing his hand back, grinning so wide
it takes him a minute to control himself enough to lick the last of the
frosting off his fingers.
“It is good, right?” he asks with the gentle persistence of certainty.
“Shut up and eat your stupid cupcakes,” Gokudera shoots back, but Yamamoto just
laughs and carefully retrieves another from the box.
It is gratifying, although Gokudera doesn’t want to admit it, satisfying to see
the effort of several hours being put to such good use. Yamamoto is eating
slowly, like he’s savoring every bite, his eyes going a little bit out-of-focus
every time as if all his attention is being brought to the taste of the
cupcakes he’s eating. Gokudera truly is satisfied with just the one bite, the
lingering flavor of the vanilla still sweet on his tongue, but he ends up
watching Yamamoto with as much focus as the other is bringing to bear on his
slow appreciation. It’s hard to look away from the motion of the other boy’s
throat, the unthinking slide of his tongue across his fingertips to lick off
the extra frosting that clings there, the way the sugar catches at his lips to
glaze them sweet with temptation. Gokudera doesn’t realize he’s staring, his
eyes unfocused and his lips parted like he can’t catch his breath, until
Yamamoto smiles at him, offers another bite of cupcake with a questioning sound
more than coherent speech.
Gokudera opens his mouth to refuse; then he closes it again, ducks his head
under the heat of the blush that starts across his cheeks at the beginnings of
an idea he can barely consider rationally. But Yamamoto is still offering the
last bite of cake, his fingers sticky with frosting, and when Gokudera looks
back at the angle of the other boy’s wrist he’s moving before he overthinks it,
reaching to take it with his fingers instead of his mouth.
Yamamoto looks away almost immediately, back at the box still half-full of
cupcakes, reaching to pick up another before Gokudera clears his throat and
manages to get out, “I said just one bite, didn’t I?” That brings the other
boy’s attention back to him, his expression clear of any suspicion of
Gokudera’s meaning, until Gokudera has to cough again before he can manage to
get out the rest of the words. “This is still for you.”
He can watch understand ease its way onto Yamamoto’s features. It’s his eyes,
first, the innocent gaze flickering into the shape of shadows as he blinks at
the bite of cake still in Gokudera’s hand. Then his mouth comes open around the
unvoiced exhale of understanding, and when he moves it’s to brace his hand
against the bed instead, to lean in so he can open his mouth to accept the bite
off Gokudera’s fingertips. His mouth is warm against the other boy’s skin, damp
and hot to the touch, but it’s only a moment of contact; then he’s drawing
back, swallowing the cake while staring at Gokudera like he’s waiting for a
cue.
“Idiot,” Gokudera says, and his voice is shaking but he’s pretty sure that’s
okay, Yamamoto won’t notice or at least won’t remember in a minute. “My fingers
are all sticky, now.”
“Mm,” Yamamoto hums. “Sorry,” and he’s leaning back in as Gokudera lifts his
hand, reaching out to brace the other boy’s wrist so he can suck Gokudera’s
fingers clean. Gokudera takes a shocked inhale, the sound harsh in his throat
as all his blood burns instantly hot in his veins, and Yamamoto hums, shuts his
eyes and sucks against Gokudera’s clean fingers like they taste as good as the
cupcakes.
“Christ,” Gokudera blurts, and he’s snatching his hand back, reclaiming his
fingers so he can manage the box still open between them. Yamamoto is leaning
in without waiting, reaching out to feather his fingers against Gokudera’s hair
while the other is still moving the remaining cupcakes safely to the floor, and
no sooner has Gokudera looked back up from pushing the box aside than Yamamoto
is on him, leaning in towards his mouth like he’s being physically drawn by the
promise of a kiss. He tastes like sugar, strawberry and chocolate and a
lingering hint of vanilla, and then Gokudera gets his hands up and against the
front of Yamamoto’s shirt and they’re toppling back onto the bed, and it’s heat
that sweeps over his attention along with the sweet of Yamamoto’s lips.
Yamamoto is laughing against his mouth, faint noise purring into vibration
between them, his fingers seeking out Gokudera’s hair and the side of his waist
while Gokudera slots their legs together so he is deliberately rather than
accidentally pinning the other down. Yamamoto’s hips rock up against his, press
them close together, and Gokudera groans and pulls back an inch so he can take
a gasp of air.
“You taste like sugar,” Yamamoto volunteers, his fingers curling in under the
bottom edge of Gokudera’s shirt to land against the other boy’s bare skin. The
contact makes Gokudera shiver, sparks heat up his spine, and when he moves it’s
to work one of his hands loose from the fists he has of Yamamoto’s shirt so he
can mirror the other’s motion.
“You taste like cupcakes,” he declares, pushing his fingers in under the edge
of Yamamoto’s jeans, and moves while Yamamoto’s eyelashes are fluttering in
reaction. With a knee against the bed he can slide downward, shifting until
he’s fitting his hips between the other boy’s knees and can push Yamamoto’s
shirt up to press his mouth to the other’s stomach. Yamamoto jerks at the
touch, a sound catching into a whimper in his throat, and Gokudera doesn’t pull
away, lets his lips linger against the fluttering tension over the other’s skin
as he works at the fastening of Yamamoto’s jeans. He’s almost there, has the
button open and the zipper down, when a hand catches at his hair, when a
breathless “Wait,” brings his attention up to Yamamoto’s face.
“What?” he snaps, maybe a little more irritated that he intended to sound. “You
don’t want me to stop, do you?”
“I want to do something for you too,” Yamamoto says, his fingers stroking
through Gokudera’s hair and pushing it back from his features.
Gokudera rolls his eyes, heaves a sigh deliberately loud enough for Yamamoto to
hear. “It’s your birthday,” he points out. “You’re supposed to accept presents,
not give them.”
“But--” Yamamoto starts, his tone deceptively gentle for an argument Gokudera
doesn’t really want to bother with, and Gokudera keeps talking, loud to drown
out the other’s protests.
“After,” he says, wraps his fingers in over the top of Yamamoto’s clothes and
starts pulling them off his hips. “If you want to I’m not going to stop you.
It’s your birthday, you can do whatever you want.” The jeans slide down and
Gokudera forms his expression into the sternest frown he can manage under the
circumstances.
“But after,” he growls, and turns his head down so he can take Yamamoto past
his lips before the other has a chance to protest further. The sound Yamamoto
makes is far from a protest, much closer to a groan, and when the fingers
against Gokudera’s hair curl into a hold Gokudera takes it as encouragement and
slides down farther. Yamamoto is hot at his tongue, salty and faintly bitter to
cut through the lingering sweet of the cupcakes, and when Gokudera shifts his
tongue experimentally Yamamoto makes a gasping noise and falls back to the
mattress with enough force for Gokudera to feel the impact.
“Hayato,” he says again, rushed and half-groaning, and Gokudera huffs a faint
laugh through his nose and shifts his head, stroking up over Yamamoto with lips
and tongue as best as he can manage. It seems to be enough, from the way the
fingers in his hair tense and the way Yamamoto flushes harder in his mouth, and
when Gokudera shifts his weight it’s just to get a hand up against Yamamoto’s
hip, to hold the other boy down and support his own weight so he can come in
closer and slide Yamamoto’s cock farther back into his mouth.
It’s not that Gokudera inherently enjoys this; the angle is always hard to work
out, the motion different to achieve and harder to maintain, and the bitter
taste at the back of his tongue isn’t pleasant, exactly. But Yamamoto’s knees
are falling open like the other boy can’t remember to sustain any strength in
his limbs, and Gokudera can feel his legs starting to tremble in response,
and that he does enjoy, the shuddering reaction of Yamamoto’s body and the
little mewling whines from the other’s throat. For that he’ll speed his
movements, slick his tongue up along the smooth underside of Yamamoto’s cock
and tighten his lips to suck as he goes, just for the way Yamamoto groans and
tries to buck up into the heat of his mouth. Gokudera feels hot, hazy and
aching with want, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t slow, even when Yamamoto’s
fingers start to tighten against his hair, even when Yamamoto’s breathing
catches audible on each of the other boy’s inhales. Gokudera’s jaw is hurting,
all he can taste is the slick bitter of pre-come against his tongue, but
Yamamoto’s back is arching off the bed and he’s going hotter against Gokudera’s
lips and Gokudera feels as anxious-close as if it’s his own orgasm he’s chasing
down. Yamamoto’s hand drags against his hair, Gokudera shoves hard at
Yamamoto’s hip, and then there’s a shudder, a tremor running through Yamamoto’s
whole body that Gokudera can feel as relief in his own. Then heat, spills of
bitter warmth over Gokudera’s tongue as Yamamoto trembles himself into
satisfaction, the hold against his hip becoming unnecessary as Yamamoto falls
boneless and languid over the sheets.
Gokudera waits until Yamamoto’s fingers go slack in his hair before he pulls
back, sits up and swallows and drags the back of his hand across his mouth.
Yamamoto is staring at him when he looks at the other boy, his whole expression
so warm and pleasure-hazed Gokudera isn’t sure he remembered his original
request at all.
“Happy birthday,” Gokudera offers, his mouth pulling into a lopsided grin in
spite of the salty bitter still clinging to his tongue, starts to lean in for a
kiss. Yamamoto moves before he expects him to, sits up with far more speed than
Gokudera was anticipating, and those fingers are back against his hair, fitting
against the back of his neck while Yamamoto presses the sugar-sweet of his
mouth in against Gokudera’s lips. Gokudera hesitates for a moment -- his own
mouth still tastes weird even to himself, and it’ll be worse for Yamamoto -
- but then Yamamoto is licking against his lips in unspoken plea, leaning in to
urge him backwards, and Gokudera is opening his mouth before he has a chance to
really consider refusing. Everything is hot, the slick heat of Yamamoto’s
tongue against his and Yamamoto’s fingers at his skin, and Yamamoto is wiggling
free of his jeans and pushing Gokudera back, sliding them both across the bed
until Gokudera’s shoulders hit the wall.
“It’s after,” is what he says when he pulls back, his eyes nearly black when he
blinks himself into focus, and Gokudera has no protest he can offer to that,
not with his heartbeat pounding loud in his ears and his cock so hard against
his jeans he’s aching with it. He just laughs instead, sharp and quick to
complement the ease of Yamamoto’s smile, reaches down to unfasten his jeans
one-handed.
“Guess so,” he admits, barely gets the words out before Yamamoto is ducking in
for another kiss, pressing his mouth hard against Gokudera’s like he’s taking a
breath before plunging underwater. Then he’s sliding away, backwards over the
bed until he’s lying across most of the mattress, braced up on one elbow while
he reaches out to pull Gokudera’s jeans open with the other. Gokudera lets him
do that too; he lacks any resistance, now, and if Yamamoto wants to return the
favor of a blowjob he can’t find the will to refuse, not with the other boy’s
eyes wide and endless-dark, with his lips damp from kissing against Gokudera’s
mouth.
Gokudera barely has time to anticipate the friction. He’s still in the middle
of getting his zipper open when Yamamoto is pulling against the fabric,
dragging jeans and boxers aside so he can lean in and fit his lips against the
head of Gokudera’s cock. His mouth is hotter than Gokudera expects, feels warm
as sunlight against his skin, and Gokudera is groaning without thinking,
grabbing a handful of Yamamoto’s dark hair to hold him in place before
rationality has kicked in. Yamamoto doesn’t seem to mind; he’s humming
pleasure, the vibration rippling down Gokudera’s length to turn into heat low
in his hips, and when Gokudera sucks in a sharp forced inhale Yamamoto takes
advantage of the moment to tip in closer, to get his lips around the head of
the other’s cock and his fingers curled around the base.
Gokudera wants to tip his head back, wants to stare unseeing at the ceiling and
groan his appreciation as the heat of Yamamoto’s mouth slides down over and
around him. He doesn’t. It’s better to keep watching, to press his shoulders to
the wall and keep his eyes focused on the dark of Yamamoto’s head as the other
boy moves, his lips moving in easy unthought rhythm with his fingers. He’s
sprawled out over the bed, the open angle of his knees speaking to the
comfortable pleasure Gokudera can imagine still warm in his veins, the hum at
the back of his throat reassurance of his own satisfaction in doing this. Every
movement of his head or his fingers brings a wave of heat with it, pleasure
spreading out up Gokudera’s spine and trembling into his fingers, until he has
to bury both hands against Yamamoto’s hair more to hold himself steady than to
urge the other boy into any additional motion. But Yamamoto is moving faster
anyway, breathing hard enough that Gokudera can feel it on his skin and sliding
his tongue up against the other boy’s length, and the heat in Gokudera is
winding tight, sooner than he’d like and faster than he’d expected,
anticipation and desire and pleasure all three tangling together until he’s
pulling Yamamoto’s hair, curling in over the other boy like the motion will
hold off the edge rushing towards him.
Then Yamamoto’s lips draw tighter, he sucks sudden and hard against the other
boy, and: “Oh fuck,” Gokudera says, “Takeshi” and his vision is gone, his
awareness is gone, everything of him is gone but the shuddering waves of
pleasure jolting up his spine and under his skin. Yamamoto keeps moving, damp
friction pulling Gokudera’s orgasm shuddering and endless, until by the time
the last tremors fade into stillness he feels half-melted and incoherent, only
the support of the wall at his back keeping him upright.
Yamamoto pulls away while Gokudera is still looking for words, smiles and sits
up and runs a hand through the mess Gokudera has made of his hair. Gokudera
watches him, blinking slow and hazy, and when Yamamoto scoots in to fit against
him he can’t find any good reason to protest the heat of the other boy’s body
settling against his or the damp of Yamamoto’s lips fitting in against his.
Even now, he tastes like sugar.
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