Name: Selfish

Pairing: Yamamoto/Gokudera

Rating: T

Disclaimers: Not mine, but the writing is.

Note: Quick oneshot, I love these two * v*

Summary: Gokudera figures he can afford to be just a little selfish.

The first time is a rainy Wednesday afternoon, and Gokudera finds himself letting a soaked Yamamoto into his quaint living room, water dripping from every strand of hair, and a hazard to his dry carpet. And when he thinks back, Gokudera doesn't even know why, because he's never let anyone into his house: not the Tenth, not Bianchi, and before this, certainly not the baseball idiot.

When the other boy comes out of the shower in one of Gokudera's old shirts (fuck, why does it look so good on him?), he sheepishly hands the silver haired boy a hopelessly wet piece of paper, and the Italian realizes it's their homework. With an expression of generosity rarely seen, Gokudera seats the other boy down and explains why x doesn't = 3, y doesn't = 9, and that linear inequalities really aren't as hard as they seem.

As they study into the night, Gokudera refuses to believe that the touches, the smiles, and the lack of focus from Yamamoto mean anything.

The second time is a warm Saturday afternoon, and Yamamato says with a smile that he is going to infect Gokudera's life with something they call real food. And once again – the Italian boy doesn't know why, but he lets the Japanese in with all his groceries: that seaweed stuff, rice, wasabi, and a bunch of different vegetables that don't seem to have anything to do with anything. Gokudera only thinks something is really weird when Yamamoto draws out two huge cartons of milk; there are lots of things that Gokudera can stand, but milk is not one of them.

"Why the hell did you bring milk to my house." It's not a question anymore, but it's a statement, dry and accusing but not as cold as it should have been.

And Gokudera is pretty sure that if he said that to anyone else within the Vongola family and beyond – perhaps with the exception of Hibari – they would flee with an expression of pure terror and a few sticks of dynamite flashing inside their underwear … butYamamoto doesn't flinch. Instead, that lazy grin works itself onto the Japanese's face and he gets to work cooking the rice, cutting the vegetables, and Gokudera doesn't know when he started thinking these thoughts, but hot damn, Yamamoto looks good.

The silence is good, because Gokudera can't stand too much noise. He's gotten used to it whenever the Tenth's around, but that's the Tenth, and he makes special exceptions for him. This isn't a normal silence though, and Gokudera takes the time to watchYamamoto from behind, noticing things that, after four years of knowing him, the Italian has never really noticed. And when the other boy is finished, he lays down the rolling mats on either side of the table, small piles of vegetables and sashimi, the nori, the rice, and a number of small ingredients that Gokudera is much too lazy to understand. The Japanese are weird anyways.

It's been thirty minutes, and Gokudera cannot get how to wrap the sushi around, because the fucking raw fish can't stick and he can't mold the rice, and a grimace makes itself onto the boy's face. Yamamoto laughs it off and smiles as usual, but this time, he brings one of his hands and stands up, molding Gokudera's hands the perfect way, and Gokudera can't help but think that this feels so right.

It's fifteen minutes later, and the silver haired boy finally has six pieces of relatively unscathed sushi and one of those rare Gokudera smiles. And Yamamoto thinks at that moment that Gokudera smiles are insanely gorgeous, because they're rare and wild, and utterly dangerous. They have a moment there, and Japanese leans in, pressing his lips to the Italian's … reckless, spur-of-the-moment, beautiful. They stay like that for a little while, Yamamoto's large frame leaning over the table and embracing Gokudera's smaller one, and it's perfect right then. It's like the world has stopped just for the two of them.

That is, until Gokudera realizes what they're doing and pushes him away abruptly, turning his head away from Yamamoto and clearing his throat bashfully. And Yamamoto – he just laughs a throaty laugh and walks out the door, as if Gokudera's home is his own.

And Gokudera is left with too much sushi, a blush on his cheeks, and an overwhelming smell of Yamamoto.

The third time is when they're both drunk, drunk on alcohol, dreams, and the intoxicating smell of each other. And Yamamoto pushes him against his bedroom door, and they're both breathing hard, adrenaline filling their veins.

It's a night of firsts, of sloppy advances, of pure pleasure. And they keep going and Yamamoto doesn't quite know where Gokudera begins and where he ends, and Gokudera doesn't know what pain is, what love is, what sex is. All he knows is Yamamoto …Yamamoto … Takeshi... And he doesn't know what they have, but he likes it too much, too much for both their own good.

The next morning, Gokudera wakes to a hangover and the honey brown gaze of the baseball idiot, and for that one moment in life, he doesn't feel anything bad. He doesn't want to feel anything bad, because being here with Yamamoto, their legs tangled beneath rumpled covers, is more than a dream – it's a dream Gokudera knows he doesn't deserve. Yamamoto is too good, too sweet, too nice, for a bitter, dried up orange like him.

And yet it isn't awkward, not at all, and when Yamamoto stops stroking soft silver hair, he stands up and walks towards the kitchen, slipping on a pair of sweats that hang off his narrow hips all too invitingly. When he comes back, he's holding a glass of milk for himself (so that's what the milk was for, huh.) and water for Gokudera, because he knows the other boy would rather choke than drink milk.

And when Yamamoto leans down and kisses his forehead, a childish milk moustache adorning his lips, Gokudera really wants to be selfish.

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, and the other six million times are uncountable. Yamamoto starts spending more time at Gokudera's than at Tsuna's, more time at Gokudera's than his own house, more time at Gokudera's than he really probably should.

The two spend their time doing anything really, from preparing sushi to watching television to looking at each other to sex. Yamamoto has found something in Gokudera that nobody else has, and he's not about to let him go, because despite his easy going appearance, Yamamoto isn't the type of boy to lose what he's finally found.

Gokudera is someone that he has been longing for ever since he was old enough to know what love meant, and Yamamoto needs him.

The Vongola family whispers behind their back, giggles, and Gokudera tries to breathe and pretend he doesn't know what they're talking about.

The seven millionth time is at four am in the morning, when it is much too early for anybody to come by, much too late for any tv show, and much too dark to see anything. But when a knock sounds on Gokudera's door, the boy knows full well who it is. And he stumbles sleepily to his door in nothing but a pair of sweats and opens it, and it's Yamamoto, with a few suitcases and backpacks in hand. The Japanese man smiles sheepishly and scratches his head in an oh-so-Yamamoto way, and says sweetly, "I sold my house yesterday."

It's a confession to Gokudera, because both of them know quite well as men that they can't just confess. But it's good enough to Gokudera and he smiles that dangerous smile.

"About fucking time."

And he grabs the other boy's collar and brings Yamamoto in for a kiss, and Yamamoto is all too compliant, and Gokudera – that moment, he figures that he can afford to be a little selfish.