Husk

Husk

- SuishouTenshi

Beloved swords have signature resonances. When freed from their sheaths, coupled with a resolution for blood, the blades will sing like the strings of a zither when plucked by a virtuoso. While rejoicing in narcissistic glory, they rampage, often heedless of their masters’ dictations, readily hiding their roaring triumph and rage and satisfaction and hunger amid Death’s victory cries. When the last vein is pierced, they quiet, like self-assured innocents. Blood never taints them; death does not erode them. And that silence, that calm, guiltless silence, becomes an introduction and a good-bye.

Shigure Kintoki is a sword which requires no preamble. Even during its silent transition from dull steel to polished blade, for someone as attuned to its most minute variances as Gokudera Hayato, the mere change in its surrounding atmosphere is enough of a declaration of its arrival.

The assassin falls without a scream; Yamamoto’s sword has long ago forgotten the definition of mercy. And Gokudera knows with certainty—the same cursed certainty which tells him Jyuudaime would not survive the three piercing bullets to his left chest—that the kill was rapid, perhaps even instinctual. He need not look in order to see the blasé expression on Yamamoto Takeshi’s face or sense the chilling blood running through the man’s veins.

Yamamoto’s blood might be cold, but Jyuudaime’s is certainly not. Crimson life-force eagerly gushes forth from the wounds, taking with them Jyuudaime’s warmth, leaving behind a pale and trembling shell. Gokudera holds his Jyuudaime’s torso, sets pressure on all the right places, and watches numbly as the very soul of Sawada Tsunayoshi selfishly streams down the filthy street curb, calmly mixing red with asphalt and spit and garbage and rainwater and tears.

When the last groan dies mid-garble in Tsuna’s throat, Gokudera tightens his grip and tries to smother himself with Tsuna’s blood.

Gokudera looks up as the storm finally quiets. Yamamoto remains motionless over the mutilated corpse of the man who put those bullets into Jyuudaime’s heart. Just a month ago, Yamamoto was training in preparation to join the Major Leaguers. Now he stands wearing a hit-man’s mask, surveying the result of his destruction with an executioner’s eyes, heedless of the spatter of blood and flesh on his suit.

In his hand, Shigure Kintoki winks coyly under the shy moonlight. Rain has freed it from the adulteration of bloodshed. Upon its edged surface, Gokudera can make out a lonely reflection of himself. Above him, the sky is bleak; around him, the world is empty.

***

They arrive at their hideout no more than half an hour after leaving that place. I-Pin is the first to notice the unmoving body in Gokudera’s arms, and her cry of grief promises to resonate forevermore inside Gokudera’s skull.

Next to rage is Lambo. Suave, composed Lambo. Fifteen-year-old Lambo. Young. Alive. He sputters nonsense at first, then nonsense turns into vows of vengeance mixed with snot and tears. His laid-back lazy eyes flash anger and dismay, and Gokudera remembers that Lambo is still just a child.

Yamamoto walks to the intercom, taking his time. “Giannini,” he says dully, “the meeting room. Now. Please.”

The base is empty except for the five of them, six counting Jyuudaime’s body. In the midst of an inter-mob war, guardians are separated and forces divided. This final blow from Millefiore seems designed to make sure that the Tenth boss of Vongola would not be able to receive final rites from all those who love him.

An ashen Giannini appears at the doorway. The toolbox in his hands clatters to the floor.

“Build a coffin,” instructs Yamamoto, “one suitable for a Vongola boss. Lambo, I-Pin, go get Haru-chan and Kyoko-chan. They would want to see Tsuna one last time. Gokudera, try to contact Tsuna’s parents and the other guar... Gokudera? Gokudera! Hayato!”

Jyuudaime’s blood has dried, caking and tightening over Gokudera’s skin, rendering his entire body rigid. He meets Yamamoto’s eyes from where he sits on the floor, where Jyuudaime lies preciously still within his protection. It is the sound of his given name on Yamamoto’s lips which makes him yield.

“Takeshi...” Gokudera murmurs back.

The Rain guardian scowls at him. The foreign expression on the man’s visage shocks Gokudera into sitting up straighter. “Try to contact Tsuna’s parents and the remaining guardians. Do you hear me, Gokudera?”

His calmness makes Gokudera want to stuff explosives into his mouth. At a nod from Yamamoto, Giannini inches forth to try to take Jyuudaime away from him. Gokudera’s response is automatic. The animalistic snarl is out before he can think.

“Gokudera!” Yamamoto admonishes.

Gokudera directs his snarl at his follow guardian this time. Yamamoto—the oblivious dimwit—can afford to be calm and free of guilt, but he can’t understand Gokudera’s compunction. After ten years of loyal service, Gokudera is the internationally recognized right-hand man to Sawada Tsunayoshi. To let his boss be gunned down a mere foot away from him is a shameful negligence that he will need the rest of his life to repent for. To let his friend die under his protection is a sorrow which shall forever haunt his nightmares.

To make things worse, it was Yamamoto who took down the assassin while Gokudera stood there stunned and sobbing. And now it is Yamamoto who has voluntarily and flawlessly taken up the responsibility of distributing tasks, calming the young ones, doing everything a right-hand man is supposed to do during a crisis.

They hold each other’s eyes in a moment that threatens to last forever; Gokudera wordlessly daring Yamamoto to take Jyuudaime away from him, and Yamamoto silently daring Gokudera to defy his admittedly sensible orders. For all the lives they’ve taken, both guardians know too much about making corpses disappear and nothing about making them beautiful. Tsuna would have to be cleaned and newly dressed and made presentable for his funeral.

Gokudera breaks away from their staring contest to take one last look at Tsuna. Rigor mortis has yet to set in, allowing an icy Tsuna to be effortlessly aligned with the contours of Gokudera’s body. Bloodied cheeks are tucked into the indent of Gokudera’s neck; wisps of Tsuna’s hair vaguely tickle his skin.

“Let me,” implores a red-eyed Giannini. “Please.”

Gokudera gives Tsuna one last squeeze, one last chance for the young boss to respond, to open his eyes and laugh and tell them it’s all just one big elaborate prank. Giannini carefully pries the body from Gokudera’s hold, and Tsuna’s chest remains unmoving.

“Go wash up,” Yamamoto says to him, “then contact the other guardians. We still have work to do.”

In the background, Gokudera hears I-Pin’s sobs and Lambo’s silence as they leave to do what they were told.

Under the flicker of the florescent lights, Gokudera can see remnants of the long-gone Reborn admist the smallest crevices of Yamamoto’s face. He looks impossibly pristine and tranquil. His cheeks are unmarred by tears, his limbs not crippled by trembles, and Gokudera wants to hate him for as long as they live.

***

Tsuna’s funeral is a lonely affair. None of the guardians are found, and I-Pin and Lambo are still making their way back from Haru and Kyoko’s respective universities. Giannini crafted a beautiful black coffin blazoned with an intricate Vongola crest. They’ve stuffed the coffin with white flowers in full blossom and set it in the deepest part of the forest. They would give Tsuna’s family and friends one more day to arrive before burying him.

The hideout is shrouded with the sound of humming machineries; their usefulness have long eluded Gokudera’s mind. Blindly walking down empty hallways, Gokudera trails the walls on each side with his fingertips reverently and regretfully, certain that despite their best efforts, this base would not remain standing for long.

His trek inevitably leads him to the men’s sleeping quarters, where military style bunk beds have been set up temporarily while the construction of individual bedrooms have been put on hold. Gokudera hesitates with good reason. Despite the gloom of the war, Jyuudaime, ever the considerate boss, took it upon himself to single-handedly decorate the originally Spartan room with memorabilia of the last ten years all of them have spent together. Gokudera has a horrifyingly clear image of every wall, every photograph and every trinket behind that door.

The last few harried days have demanded his complete attention, and lack of sleep played no small role in Gokudera’s exhaustion. But now that his bed is merely a turned knob away, Gokudera frantically scours mental lists for some forgotten task, anything to keep him working, anything to keep him useful.

When he realizes that there is nothing left to do, Gokudera closes his eyes and opens the door. Maybe if he doesn’t look, he can collapse on one of the numerous empty beds and just sleep, maybe he won’t dream and maybe he won’t ever have to wake up again.

Fate once more proclaims Her loathing when he enters the room only to be bombarded by the smell of Yamamoto.

He opens his eyes to find the man stooping over one of their dressers. Sagging shoulders look as drained as Gokudera feels.

Unsmiling black eyes do not take immediate notice of Gokudera’s entrance. Instead, they are inspecting the rows of picture frames aligned on the dresser, of grinning faces and sardonic smirks, of joviality and challenging stares, of laughter they will never hear anymore.

“He’s gone,” Yamamoto’s hoarse and soft pronunciation make the words sound like a question. And Gokudera cannot find the energy to hate him any longer.

He nods to Yamamoto’s profile.

The swordsman’s breakdown is sudden and tempestuous, and in Gokudera’s honest opinion, belated but completely justified.

Gokudera watches coolly as Shigure Kintoki dances; each beat brings its fangs that much closer to his head. He waits for it, unmoving. It is his complete faith in the sword’s wielder that grants him courage to stand still as its edge raves towards him.

It stops. Gokudera feels a few strands of his hair float to the floor. Shigure Kintoki drops with a dull rattle, but judging by the unearthly turn of its owner’s expression, Yamamoto’s rage has not yet gone away.

Detachment is supposed to be a hit-man’s privilege, but one which Yamamoto can no longer employ.

Gokudera prepares himself for pain without truly knowing why. Yamamoto’s vice-like fingers are around his wrists in the next breath, and Gokudera finds himself thoughtlessly shoved to the ground with a killer trembling above him.

Yamamoto’s grip tightens even when the rest of his body remains relaxed. He effortlessly pins down Gokudera’s arms and traps his victim’s legs between his own. Looking up, Gokudera notices for the first time that Yamamoto’s looming shoulders are wider than his own, and he is unexpectedly and irrationally breathless.

Dark eyes roam Gokudera’s face, scurrying aimlessly. He is not sure what they hope to discern, but Gokudera can tell from the resulting crinkle between them that they did not find it.

Bleeding red lips open, making Gokudera wonder how he missed their battered condition until now. “Tsuna,” they plead brokenly.

Gokudera swallows. “Jyuudaime,” he begs in turn, realizing too late that to him, the man he adored—adores, always adores—will forever remain as Jyuudaime. But to Yamamoto, there will never be another Tsuna.

The kiss falls as impulsively as the rest of Yamamoto’s actions tonight. Lips so chapped scrape painfully across Gokudera’s own, unable to deliver any pleasure.

Then the tongue comes without invitation, a wet and daring little thing that glides and slithers, wholly certain of its purpose and ability. Yamamoto’s hands move up to clasp his shoulders, pushing and pulling, grinding Gokudera’s bones mercilessly. The pain is so palpable and feels so utterly delicious it drives Gokudera to respond.

They bite at each other, mouths never separating even when oxygen becomes short. Gokudera can see purple spots behind his eyelids and taste Yamamoto’s blood in his throat. Just when his lungs are about to collapse, Yamamoto eases away.

The first thing Gokudera sees is a familiar pair of disbelieving eyes that has long ago stopped smiling, then his sight trails down to the only scar marring Yamamoto’s face, a blemish as straightforward and razor-sharp as the man himself.

Gokudera needs to taste that scar more than anything at the moment. It’s a struggle due to the hands that are still holding him down, but he manages to lift his head high enough to languidly lick the swordsman’s chin.

A bodily tremor is the reaction he earns. Emboldened, Gokudera nips and nibbles along Yamamoto’s incisive jaw line, going from chin to earlobe and back.

He reaches his objective when Yamamoto leans down to facilitate his task. When he determinedly plunges his tongue into Yamamoto’s ear, Gokudera is awarded by a torrent of kisses that begins at his lips and continues endlessly lower.

Buttons are ripped and belt buckles undone. A whimper echoes before lips finally touch the tip of Gokudera’s cock. Just a tiny kiss at first, because Yamamoto apparently feels a necessity to arrest Gokudera’s attention with his fearful eyes, to beseech silently for permission, forgiveness, and hopeless freedom.

The Storm guardian nods, his body quickly releasing itself from a previously unknown guilt. Yamamoto takes him into his mouth, deep and complete, eating him like a starved man who was left to die.

Vaguely aware that the door is still open, Gokudera nonetheless cannot stop the downpour of screams that rushes forth. There is lightning in his vision. Yamamoto’s expert mouth tugs resolutely, abrasive lips grazing enchantingly at the sides of Gokudera’s cock. A tight throat engulfs him, surrounding him in a tunnel of warmth. His screams fade to ragged gasps.

His hands are empty. Gokudera has never before felt such raw need for something to hold on to. He flails his arms and sobs chokingly when one of Yamamoto’s hands flies up to capture them both. In the mere second that he wastes to admire the size of the man’s palm, two calloused fingers begin their invasion of his body.

Gokudera screams without sound. He didn’t know such piercing pain could feel so good. No longer sure whether it’s Yamamoto’s mouth or fingers driving out his sanity, Gokudera’s hips jerk up to beg in the only way he knows how.

Yamamoto’s mouth stops though his fingers are still knuckle-deep in Gokudera’s ass. Blazing eyes drink in Gokudera’s naked torso. He cruelly wiggles those fingers, making Gokudera wish he had enough energy to fight for the release of his hands so he could cover his burning cheeks.

The fingers leave Gokudera’s body in order to free Yamamoto’s own restrained appendage, a dark red and arrogant arousal of which with a brush of it against Gokudera’s thigh, momentarily stops his palpitating heart.

Yamamoto turns him onto his front and tugs down his pants and underwear. “I’m sorry,” Yamamoto whispers hauntingly into his ear as he brings up Gokudera’s hips.

Gokudera closes his eyes and inhales to cleanse him of all transgression. Somehow, he knows the apology is not for him alone.

He hears Yamamoto’s gasp of pleasure before sensing the burning pain. Yamamoto’s cock is dry, as are Gokudera’s inner walls. The thrusts are awkward and slow and each jab feels like a knife cutting under his skin.

Then he feels traces of liquid lubricating his hole — Yamamoto’s precome or his own blood. The pain doesn’t subside but Yamamoto is moving faster now, filling his body and heart with a nameless something that he never knew was missing.

Gokudera’s voice is returned to him and he uses it to say, “More.”

Yamamoto moans deeply within his chest, hands finding purchase around Gokudera’s waist.

“More!”

All the way out so Gokudera is nearly crying out of loss, then all the way back in to snatch away any remaining vestige of reason.

“Harder!”

Fingernails dig into Gokudera’s flesh, a tingling bombardment of hurt and bliss.

“Takeshi! Please!”

His cries sound alien to his ears. Upon hearing his given name, Yamamoto abruptly embraces Gokudera’s middle and lifts him effortlessly to an upward position. Their thighs align like puzzle pieces, Yamamoto’s erection so utterly entrenched in him that Gokudera does not believe anything will ever again touch him as deeply.

“Move for me, Hayato,” Yamamoto commands before biting into Gokudera’s shoulder, normal gentleness giving up center stage to the hit-man who now holds Gokudera.

Gokudera complies. Tremulous muscles strain to raise a disobedient body. Once the rhythm is found, Gokudera can shut his eyes and let the pleasure—all pleasure now—shatter him. Up and down, there exists nothing more in this world than the repetition of ups and downs. His head lolls back unto Yamamoto’s shoulder, his ears awash with the resonance of Takeshi’s gasps.

Up and down.

Oddly tender fingers reach out to Gokudera’s right hand, moving it to hover over his neglected cock. Together, they bring Gokudera to a luminous completion. He sobs and shudders and feels so safe because Takeshi is still holding him ever so tightly.

Still shaking from the spasms, Gokudera dimly notes that Takeshi is still hard and pulsating. Turning his head to speak, Gokudera is surprised by a soft kiss.

Yamamoto withdraws in order to set Gokudera onto his back. Confused, Gokudera readily makes a move to help relieve Yamamoto’s strain.

His worry turns out to be unnecessary. Taking hold of still shaky legs, Yamamoto guides them until they are loosely wrapped around his waist. Then once more, Yamamoto breaches him, restoring to him that heat and sin.

“Oh,” one says.

“Yes,” one responds.

They’re looking at one another now, face to face, eye to eye. Yamamoto moves impossibly slow, biting his lips and bruising Gokudera’s hips in his silly demonstration of self-control. Gokudera wants to pull him down to kiss him, but a misty composition of guilt and love in those eyes stops him.

Suddenly Gokudera knows that Yamamoto is no longer looking at him, and that knowledge fills him with so much gratitude and relief that Gokudera tenaciously gathers up all the strength left in his boneless body to clench down on Yamamoto.

The consequent roar is so loud that Gokudera is sure the whole base must be echoing with it. His insides twitch impishly when bathed with the results of Yamamoto’s orgasm. The swordsman slumps down on him, their bodies still intimately attached, and Gokudera wishes Yamamoto would not leave him anytime soon.

He strokes Yamamoto’s sweaty hair. An unnerving chill settles over them, warning them that it is only a matter of minutes until their grief returns in full force. Absurdly aware of the comfort he finds in the mere sensation of Yamamoto’s spent organ resting within him, Gokudera opens his mind’s defense of his own accord to welcome back those preciously agonizing memories of a living breathing smiling Jyuudaime.

His hands wander down to rest upon Yamamoto’s tensing shoulders. At long last, Gokudera understands the desire for Death to depart alone and Man’s need for Love to bloom together.

Drawing on the strength of their connection, Gokudera pastes a kiss to Yamamoto’s forehead and whispers to the half-broken man, “What if I promise to try to love you as much as he did?”

A pause.

Yamamoto wordlessly holds him tighter.

Closing his eyes to shut out the watchful glimmer of a neglected Shigure Kintoki, Gokudera thinks he can feel a ghostly nod quiver against his heart.

- The End

Well, that's it! How'd I do? *shifts nervously*

No matter what kind of comments I get, I just like to say that it was so fun writing this story. True, the last four paragraphs alone took me 2 and a half hours to write and another 2 to fix, but I felt like I did my very best for this one-shot. To all the fans of Hitman Reborn, thanks for reading, and bye!!!