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Yamamoto’s never put much stock in psychology, mostly because he’s not very good at it. He likes people too much to pick them apart and pull at their strings, even if his future position will be to literally do so. Currently he leaves the not so positive relations to Gokudera, who is perhaps the only thing that could get Yamamoto to believe in all the scientific nonsense his friend holds so dear. Many times Gokudera has given an impassioned speech about it and just as frequently Yamamoto has fallen asleep or mentally kicked the ass of every other baseball team in Japan. But Yamamoto doesn’t need psychology to know that if you’re imagining the guy you’re sleeping with is killing you, you probably have a problem.
It starts with a dream, which, if his textbook is to be believed, is common. Not that it’s any less worrying, especially when he’s still soaked with sweat and the pages flutter in his shaky hands. The only redeeming factor to this night is that it’s one of the few he’s not spending at said maybe murderous lover’s apartment. Yamamoto doesn’t know much about romance, either, but he’s pretty sure there’s no nice way to ask your sweetheart if they plan on killing you at some point in your relationship.
Here’s the thing: Yamamoto doesn’t actually think Gokudera would do it. Despite the fact that Gokudera is basically a bear trap come to life cleverly disguised as a human being Yamamoto knows Gokudera would never hurt him.
But it triggers something in his mind, something Yamamoto has been willfully ignoring since before he and Gokudera were even on a mildly friendly basis with one another. There are the things Reborn has told him, the things Gokudera himself has told him (few and far between as those are), and then there are the unspoken things that Yamamoto can do nothing but piece together in his head. With all of that combined, there was one glaring fact that Yamamoto could no longer brush aside: Gokudera Hayato was a killer. He had killed when he was young, surely more than once, and he’d made money off the corpses. And, as the Vongola’s right-hand man, there was no doubt he would kill again, even if it was just in self-defense.
None of this was new to Yamamoto. Even if he hadn’t gotten that information while they were in the future, he’d still know, because he knew Gokudera. He spent enough time with him to see that all that rage and self-loathing wasn’t just the product of a shitty childhood, and that he had damn good reasons for being so peculiar about how his funds were spent. But if there was anything he’d learned from joining the Mafia it was that there was a difference between knowing something and understanding it. He thought he had realized what he’d gotten into when the Varia stormed to town, but it wasn’t until he heard tales of his friend’s coffin and an empty sushi shop that it snapped into place. And there was nothing quite like imagining a pair of familiar hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing the life out of you.
Reborn had said that Yamamoto was a natural hitman. Somehow, bent over the toilet in the wee hours of the morning puking his guts out, Yamamoto has a hard time believing it.
*
The next time it happens he’s not at home. He’s screaming underwater until he’s shaken awake and brought back to the apartment. His vision swims, goes between the two Gokuderas, separate in every possible way except for the fact they both had him trapped. The difference is that he actually wants to be trapped by this Gokudera, the one who is currently staring down at him with a mix of anger and worry. “What. The Hell. Was that?”
“Nightmare,” Yamamoto replies breathlessly.
Gokudera snorts. “Hell of a nightmare.”
“Yeah. It was.”
“If you’re expecting me to ask you about your feelings, it’s not gonna happen.” At that Yamamoto can’t help but smile. The fact that the dream Gokudera never talks helps ground him back to reality. “Just shut up and go back to sleep.”
“Right. Sorry for waking you.”
“Whatever. Next time do it quietly or something,” he mutters, rolling onto his side and seemingly drifting off.
For a long moment Yamamoto just stares at the pale expanse of his back, taking in the myriad of tiny scars and brightly colored bruises from wounds new and old. Gokudera always looks more than a little beat up, but he’s also just as good at hiding his fights as he is picking them. The trick is knowing what to look for, a technique Yamamoto has invented and perfected since their first meeting years ago. It goes hand in hand with the belief that Hayato Gokudera isn’t as tough as he puts on, a belief currently being shaken by the illusion of water in Yamamoto’s lungs.
Gokudera doesn’t let people in, to his bed or his heart and especially not both. He also doesn’t let his guard down. The fact that he does all of this for Yamamoto should mean something. It does mean something.
(Doesn’t it?)
*
It’s tiring pussyfooting around a serial killer. That’s another thing Yamamoto has learned from joining the Vongola family. He’s been doing it for years, sure, but he wasn’t kind-of-sort-of in love with any of those other serial killers.
Yamamoto can’t remember the last time he’s felt so alone. It’s probably when he broke his arm and climbed the school rooftop, determined to end his life (The irony that he now fears for said life isn’t lost on him). The dreams have been happening for a week now and it’s really starting to take a toll on him. There’s a nice, dark set of rings underneath his eyes and he can barely focus on baseball. It comes to a head when during a game Yamamoto drops an incredibly easy catch and costs the team their win.
Later on he’s in the changing room trying not to fall asleep or cry or both when he hears the tell-tale tinker of metal and pointedly does not look up when Gokudera stands behind him. But he doesn’t drop the façade completely, managing to stick a smile on his face and comment, “You could at least try and be a little quiet to surprise me.”
“Why would I do that?” Gokudera grumbles.
“Well, we wouldn’t want the passion to fade from our relationship. It’s only been a few months, after all.”
“Yeah, somehow I doubt that’s going to happen.” Gokudera’s presence is heavy at his back and there’s a part of Yamamoto that just wants to throw himself at him. But he keeps his eyes on his working fingers, packing his uniform as carefully and slowly as possible to buy time. “Considering you’re apparently going insane.”
Yamamoto frowns. Apparently he’s not doing damage-control as well as he thought. “I’m not. It’s nothing, just. A thing.”
“’A thing?’ That’s the best you’ve got? You’ve been dodging me for a week, you look like the walking dead, and now you’re playing like the actual dead. The fuck is your problem?”
He’s heard that tone before. It’s the same one his dad uses when Yamamoto comes home late at night with a smile and a lie. Suddenly there’s a lump in his throat. “Gokudera, I’m fine. Don’t worry about m—“
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Gokudera snaps, fingers latching onto Yamamoto’s shoulder and dragging him so they’re face to face. It’s worse, looking at him and seeing along with hearing. There’s thinly veiled fear which makes him look years younger and Yamamoto feels like he’s been kicked in the gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
“Don’t be sorry, either. Talk.”
“Can’t.”
“Why? I’ve told you—“
Yamamoto doesn’t need to hear the end of that sentence to know it’s going to make him feel approximately six hundred percent worse than he already does. “I know. That’s why I can’t.”
“Your logic is shit.”
“Know that, too.”
“Just fucking tell me what’s going on with you.” There’s the smallest silence before Gokudera sighs and decides to take things into his own hands. “I’m guessing it has something to do with that freak-out you had at my place the other day?” Yamamoto nods, not trusting his voice. “What did you see? Had to be Hell to make you act so—“
He swears he can actually hear the realization hit Gokudera and prepares for the worst. But there’s nothing except a silence that chills Yamamoto down to his bones. “Gokudera, I’m—“
“Convinced I’m gonna murder you in your sleep?” Gokudera offers with all the venom Yamamoto’s been waiting for.
“It’s just some stupid dream. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Right, which is why you’ve been bent out of shape about it for a fucking week now. Because it means so little.”
“Please—“
“Are you afraid of me?”
The ice in Gokudera’s voice sends a very real shiver along Yamamoto’s spine. He’s seen Gokudera in various states of anger over the years. It’s wildfire, unrestrained, unfocused, and ripping through anything in its path. The idea that he could sound so flat and completely cold and yet be so furious is terrifying. Yamamoto’s tempted to say yes, but that’s not entirely true, because he’s realized that while the idea of banging a career killer is scary the idea of not banging this career killer is much more frightening.
But he doesn’t have a chance to say that. Gokudera’s already stormed out of the locker room, leaving Yamamoto with his thoughts.
That night, he sleeps. No dreams, no death, no Gokudera. Nothing but the night and its peace.
He’s never been more miserable.
*
Breakups are nothing like the movies, Yamamoto thinks. They haven’t actually broken up (if they were ever even together), but considering the way Gokudera turns into a stone statue every time he and Yamamoto cross paths he’s pretty sure he’s no longer a welcome resident at Honeymoon Period Central. Not that Yamamoto blames him for it. It’d be easier if he could, but no, he leads the kind of life where the felon is the sympathetic party in a teen love story gone awry.
Time is supposed to stop when you lose someone you love. Life is supposed to end. But it doesn’t. It keeps going on and on and pays no mind as to whether or not you’re keeping up.
Which, in case anyone was wondering, Yamamoto is not, because if he was a zombie before he has gone full corpse at this point. He sleeps too much, eats too little, and has been benched more times than he can count. In short, he’s a mess. But he takes some comfort in the fact it’s not all because of Gokudera. At this point it’s branched out to questioning his entire life and his choices, which has to knock some of the desperation points off.
Everyone and the mother (specifically Tsuna’s mother who, bless her heart, isn’t exactly stellar with the whole “comforting humans in pain” thing) try to dig their way into his business. Everyone but Bianchi, who has done nothing but shoot him the stink-eye and not-so-subtly slide poisoned milkshakes his way. Yamamoto has no idea what Gokudera told her and no intention of asking considering that the most pleasant outcome for most interactions with Bianchi is crying with a side of salmonella.
About a month passes in a fashion that’s both dull and awkward. All’s quiet on the Mafia front, which limits the time everyone actually has to spend with one another. It should also make things a bit less uncomfortable, but this Family never functions the way it should.
At this point, Yamamoto’s almost fine with letting Gokudera strangle him if it means the man will just talk to him before he does it. Of course, if Yamamoto knew Gokudera would show up at his backdoor at one in the morning bloody and potentially drunk he would have made his specifications a little more … specific.
*
“Fifteen.” It’s the first thing Gokudera says, quiet and slightly slurred out of his mouth. Yamamoto stares at him through the crack in the door, uncomprehending and unsure what to say. “I figured you’d want a number,” he adds, shifting back and forth on his feet, firmly keeping his eyes off Yamamoto’s face.
Awareness dawns on him, along with the knowledge that he really had no expectation of what that number would be. It seems too small and too large at the same time. “Okay,” he replies finally, then pulls the door open wide. Gokudera regards him for a long moment before stepping inside. It feels strange to have the roles reversed. Of course, Gokudera’s been over once or twice, but he still gives the room a thoughtful glance that’s a combination of curiosity and caution, the same way he regards any changes in routine.
It’s funny, Yamamoto thinks, that when Gokudera drinks it seems to make him calmer. Maybe the only place someone so high-strung can go is down. There’s a part of him that’s grateful for it and a part that hates it, because it means they can actually sit and discuss this like functioning human beings. Which, come to think of it, they’re really not, but they can try.
“I don’t blame you,” Gokudera says finally, plopping down at the edge of Yamamoto’s bed and staring him down from the edge of the bed. “I mean, it’s fucked, right? Everything is.”
“Sometimes,” Yamamoto concedes. “But not always.”
“Not in my experience.”
“I’ve been trying to change that.”
“I know.” Not that you’ve been succeeding, his tone implies, which is a giant pile of lies. Yamamoto has seen a change in Gokudera, the slightest lightening in his burdens, and he refuses to believe that a tiny bit is all he can get.
“Hey, in my defense none of those girly magazines Haru’s made me read could have ever prepared me for this.”
To his surprise, Gokudera actually laughs. It’s short, but not like the usual bitter chuckles Yamamoto’s used to getting. All the more evidence that his campaign is successful. “Fair, I guess.” The cheer is gone as quickly as it arrived and Gokudera’s face is back to the hardened mask Yamamoto’s become unwillingly accustomed to. “This is a one-time deal, talking about this. After tonight none it comes up ever again.”
“All right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says, because it’s too early and too late for Gokudera to spiral out on him. “When did it start?” He forces out through a hoarse throat.
“I was eleven.” As if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Kids get by longer on the streets sometimes. People take pity on you. Give you money and don’t beat the shit out of you if they catch you pocketing a loaf of bread. But when you’re not all cute and helpless anymore, well…” There’s a long pause before Gokudera finishes, “You do what you have to to survive.”
Yamamoto can’t help but see the tiny Gokudera that’s been in his head ever since he learned the story of Gokudera’s mother. He sees a bright boy with too big eyes and a shell not yet hardened. He pictures him cold and hungry and impossibly, utterly alone, and suddenly his eyes begin to sting. “The first time,” he starts, not trusting his voice to stay steady. “Was it…”
“Awful?” Gokudera finishes, looking up to lock his eyes with Yamamoto’s. “Yes.”
“Does it get easier?”
Nothing. Just as Yamamoto thought.
“I’ve heard there’s a difference between made men and those born into it,” Gokudera offers instead. “Like it makes more sense growing up with blood money or something. The only thing that’s really different is one guy has a choice and the other one doesn’t. But I was good at what I did. It’s what’s kept me going this long.”
Yamamoto doesn’t need Gokudera to tell him that. He’s seen the way Gokudera fights, how no matter the enemy or the circumstance his first instinct is to go in for the kill. Gokudera Hayato fights to survive and to win, consequences be damned.
The boy in Yamamoto’s mind is now sitting on his bed, older, not wiser, and much bloodier. But deep down there’s still that same tender heart, the one that bristles whenever it’s brushed no matter the touch.
“You should know what you’re getting into before you’re stuck,” Gokudera continues when Yamamoto stays mum. “With the Mafia and … with me.” It’d be sweet, Yamamoto thinks, if he wasn’t already in too deep. He’s six feet under and if he’s lucky he gets to lie down beside Gokudera at the end of it.
Yamamoto clears his throat. “It doesn’t change anything for me.”
Gokudera blinks, apparently stunned. “Well, that’s incredibly stupid,” he mutters, though Yamamoto spots the slightest hint of red on his cheeks even in the darkness.
His lips curl into a reluctant smile. “Maybe, but you already know that.” The distance between them prickles his skin and he finally crosses the room to sit beside Gokudera. “It’s a lot to take in,” he admits. “It’s scary to think about, that you or I could end up…” He lets the words trail off, trusting Gokudera to understand the things he can’t quite voice yet.
“Look, if you need time or space or whatever—“
“Not space,” Yamamoto blurts out. “Time, definitely, but no more space.”
“Could have fooled me,” Gokudera mutters.
He frowns. “I didn’t know what to say. It’s not like I wanted to hurt your feelings.”
“You did a bang-up job of that one.”
“That why you’re all drunk and beat up?” Because of course Gokudera would go out and start a bar-fight rather than just, you know, call Yamamoto or something.
“I am not drunk, I am mildly intoxicated,” Gokudera corrects stiffly. “Besides, what else was I supposed to do, lay down on your street and cry?”
“You’ve done stranger things.” For that, Yamamoto earns a punch in the arm, which reminds him… “I’m not afraid of you,” he tells Gokudera, looking straight into the other boy’s eyes so there’s no way he can misinterpret this or delude himself into thinking he heard otherwise. “I never was. I was only ever scared that something would happen to you and there’d be nothing I could do about it. You could be less intense about the coffee machine, though.”
“Okay, one, it’s espresso, not coffee, which I have told you at least a thousand times, you thick-headed moron. And two, it’s a fucking expensive piece of very delicate machinery I do not trust you with, hence why I go out of my way to hide it every time you insist on coming to my apartment.”
“You’re awful,” Yamamoto says, because he’s really not and it’s nice to know that again. “I’m sorry,” he adds, bumping Gokudera’s shoulder. “For hurting you.”
“Tch. You should be.” Despite his tone he stays still, seemingly content to rest against Yamamoto. "Mafia is all I’ve known,” he mutters, head hanging slightly. “All of this—school, friends, living in a place with a roof over it—this is what’s not normal to me.”
Yamamoto doesn’t claim to get it, any of it, but he’s willing to learn. For now, he rests his head on Gokudera’s shoulder and lets his eyes close under the weight of it all. “Stay.”
Gokudera does. After that night the nightmares don’t come back.