Archive of Our Own

Yamamoto Takeshi is a man with traditional values in every sense. All he always wanted was a simple life; a good career, probably something involving baseball, a loving family, and a house with a moderate backyard, and maybe a few kids later in the future. He grew up believing that life was simple, that there would be ups and downs. If you take everything a little less seriously, life could be fun. For Yamamoto Takeshi life was a game.

At the age of twenty-four, he found someone suitable enough for him, someone who would probably not understand him but would be willing enough to except him despite of all his flaws, and he proposed to her because that was the right thing to do.

He thought he had it all figured out; get married, take over his late father’s sushi restaurant, and build a family. He was too old for mafia games anyway.

So when his best man kissed him right before he took his wedding oath, he felt as his world shifted around him, moved in 360 degrees rotation, something inside his heart shifted too, something foreign was bursting out from his chest, something he couldn’t understand. However, he pushed the feeling aside because his bride was waiting for him outside.

It was a chaste kiss and yet Yamamoto couldn’t help thinking over and over how the other’s lips felt on him.

Later that night during his wedding reception, as he stood in the middle of the balcony door, with his right hand still holding the unopened champagne, his mouth gaped, opening and closing distractedly because he was unable to breathe properly as he watched the scene unfolding a few feet beyond him as his best man, who was probably drunk, with his untucked shirt and messy hair; kissing and groping another guy. Yamamoto felt the odd twinge of something akin to jealousy.

Then something in his heart twisted. Something snapped.

Much, much later that night when he was lying on the bed beside his sleeping new wife, naked and sweating from sex; he let his mind wander. He felt less content than he thought he would be, less satisfied. And something in his chest hurt.

At the age of twenty-five and his first night as a married man, Yamamoto Takeshi wonders if he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

-

Life after marriage was surprisingly uneventful for Yamamoto. The first week after their honeymoon, he spent his days mostly in the restaurant with Emi sorting out the unfinished matters at the restaurant. Business at Takesushi was good and work kept him occupied most of the time. By the time he closed the restaurant he was so drained that he would fall asleep right away, as soon as he hit the pillow. He often wondered how his father had managed to run the business alone all those years.

Hours, days, weeks passed, and before he knew it almost two months passed and he hadn’t contacted any of his ex-family members. There were times that he almost—almost forgot the life he had before he was married. It seemed natural to him, except there was a huge empty gap somewhere inside his heart, and the unfathomable longing he felt inside.

But there was a night when he dreamt of tracing his fingers timidly along protruding hipbones, kissing the skin just above the navel, tasting the spectacular flavor of a pale color nipple against his tongue, and running his fingers from the flat of the chest to the soft silver strands of hairs.

He woke up panting and drenched in sweat. Emi was still deep in the depth of her peaceful slumber on his right. He lay still for a while, getting his breath back before trudging off to the bathroom, and stood under the shower long enough until the dawn broke.

-

When Yamamoto was seven, he found an injured bird in his backyard. He took it home, placed it in a shoebox, and nursed it back to health. He didn’t mention to his father about the bird until one day as he was feeding the bird his father came over and sat down next to him, shooting him knowing looks. Yamamoto had always been terrible at keeping secrets, especially from his father.

"You shouldn’t keep it like that in a small box.”

“Why?”

 “Do you know what makes a bird happy, Takeshi?”

“Food?” he asked in a tiny voice.

“Yes. But they also like to fly. Now it’s confined in a small space. I don’t think it’s happy.”

“But I found it and it was injured. I was the one who fixed it.” He replied, defensive.

“That was good of you but Takeshi,” his father smile, the crease on his forehead deepened, “if you really cherish the bird you have to set free so it can be happy.”

He didn’t think his father was right. He was happy with the bird and he was sure the bird was happy being with him. He saved the bird’s life.

But a few days later, he did let the bird free, and he spent the next three days crying himself to sleep.

-

“Marriage life suits you, Yamamoto,” Tsuna said gently with a smile as he entered his room.

Tsuna’s office was exactly as he remembered. He let his eyes drift from the enormous table to the soft expensive carpet. The room was decorated mostly with wood. He missed this place; he only realized it when he stepped into the room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come and visit you earlier.”

“It’s okay. I just came back from Italy a few days ago.”

He asked the inevitable question, “Where’s Gokudera?”

“Oh. He’s still in Italy with Lambo, finishing some stuff for me,” Tsuna laughed lightly, “You know how hopeless I am and thank God for Gokudera, at least I can slack off a little.”

Tsuna laughed the laugh that was so familiar to him. Suddenly he was swept by nostalgia—it felt like being in a family again.

Yamamoto smiled, rubbing the tense muscles on his neck. At the back of his mind he was relieved he was no longer a babbling fool, or he might have just spilled out the mass of emotions he had bottled up to the laughing man in front of him, who he considered more a brother rather than his ex-boss.

-

He stumbled with Hibari as he stepped out from Tsuna’s office.

Hibari face was impassive, he was walking casually and deliberately, and his footsteps echoed in the empty hall. He stopped in his track and stood next to Yamamoto, shoulder to shoulder, but facing the door instead.

“This is not your place anymore.”

Yamamoto frowned, “What?”

“You heard me.”

Yamamoto narrowed his eyes and turned toward the other man. They had never been close but the other man had no reason to act hostile towards him.

But then he remembered that night, images flooded his eyes unwillingly; there were things that he wished he hadn’t seen, things he wished he could forget. He cleared his throat, “Is this about Gokudera?”

“What about Gokudera?”

“I saw you with him the night at the reception.”

“Is that so?” Hibari asked, sounding amused.

“Why you are being-” then something struck him hard, “Do you lo—care for him?”

It was some time before Hibari answered, “Does it even matter?” His voice was flat and monotone.

They glared at each other in silence. Both waiting for the other to be first to break eye contact.

“You had your chance but not anymore,” Hibari said, finally.

Yamamoto stared at Hibari for a moment, then he nodded absently, his mind was reeling, “I understand.”

He couldn’t decide who had played the part of the injured bird; Gokudera or him.

-

When he returned from the base, it was late and Emi was waiting for him by the restaurant door with a tight smile on her face. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as he greeted her.

She looked at him as if she was trying to read him, to understand him but given up halfway in the process. If she had been wondering where he had been, she didn’t show it.

He took her hand and led her towards their room. He couldn’t comprehend why it felt wrong as he cupped her face as he kissed her, but it did. It felt wrong as he kissed her neck and inhaled the smell at the shallow of her throat. Even the smell was wrong, and it felt wrong about being wrong. It felt worse than wrong when he pretended the person he was holding close was smelling of sulfurs and cigarette smoke.

He wondered when his feeling had become a huge tangled mess.

-

The next time they meet again was on Tsuna’s birthday. The whole family came over and it was Lambo’s idea for them to celebrate at Yamamoto’s restaurant.

Twenty-six years old. Time sped up as you got older. It seemed like just yesterday they had left middle school.

They were all sitting together on the long table, laughter, and jokes filling the room. It felt nice as the whole family united again even for a brief moment. Just for a moment he was part of the family again.

-

“Can a guy smoke alone without some idiot annoying him?”

“It’s kind of crowded inside.”

“I thought you like crowded.”

“I thought so too.”

He walked over towards Gokudera who was leaning against the uneven wood of the wall outside the restaurant. He joined the other man, leaning against the same wall, just a foot away from him. He couldn’t remember the last time they had been alone together like this.

“It’s been a while since we talked.”

“We never talked, idiot. It was you talking and I pretending to be listening.” Gokudera sounded cold and unfamiliar. It pained him how impersonal they had become.

He forced a laugh, “Is that so? Well, it’s been a while since I’ve done the talking and you’ve pretended to be listening.”

“Moron.” Gokudera threw his cigarette on the ground and lit another one.

“I miss those mafia games we used to play.”

Gokudera glared at him, took a deep breath, and then turned away from him, “Tch.”

Yamamoto glanced at Gokudera, trying to catch glimpses of his expression, but all he could see was the side of Gokudera’s face that wasn’t covered by his bangs. They stood quietly as they listened to the sound of laughter from inside of the restaurant.

“I think,” Gokudera said after a long while. He brought his cigarette close to his lips, not quite touching, the tip lingered between the small space of his lips, “I think somewhere along the line, you know all that shit wasn’t a game. But you ignore it, like you ignore everything in front of you that didn’t fit with your idyllic life. So you keep on pretending like everything was a game.”

Yamamoto recoiled as if he was being slapped; he bit the inside of his cheek because he didn’t know how to respond to that.

“And you know what?” Gokudera asked after a long drag of cigarette.

“What?”

“The game is over, baseball nut.” He threw away his cigarette and stood up straight, fixing his jacket, “Game over, deal with it.”

He walked back inside the restaurant, leaving Yamamoto alone and wounded.

-

Emi picked up dishes beside the sink and began to rinse them. Her back was facing Yamamoto who was stacking dirty plates on the table. It was a little after one and everyone had left the restaurant after quick exchanges of goodbyes.

After their short exchange, Gokudera had been avoiding him the rest of the night, with Hibari sticking close to him the entire time.

“I don’t like them being here.”

“They’re my family.” He frowned, a little surprised by the sudden harshness of her words.

She stacked the plates on the shelves than wiped the water off from the counter with a rag. She turned around to face him, her right hand still holding the wet rag.

Emi shook her head, “No. Not anymore. I’m your only family now.”

The wet rag was still in her hand, water dripping, and pooling into a tiny puddle on the floor next to her feet.

“Please don’t invite them over here again.”

Yamamoto nodded distractedly, and than he smiled his usual smile, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t guilt that was gnawing inside him. His eyes fixed on the tiny puddle that started forming into a bigger one.

“Takeshi?”

“You might want to mop that floor or someone’s bound to slip later.”

Emi threw the rag at him.

That night as he lay down on the couch, he replayed his earlier conversation with Gokudera in his mind over and over again. Then he spent the remainder of the night blinking at the ceiling.

-

Four months and two weeks after Tsuna’s birthday, he received a call from Ryohei.

“Hibari’s dead.”

“Oh God. How’s Tsuna handling it?”

“It’s not Tsuna I’m worried about, Yamamoto. It’s Gokudera.”

-

He found Gokudera in his room sitting at the edge of his bed with his head buried in his hands. He sat on the floor, uninvited, by the other man’s feet, watching him closely. Gokudera’s hair had grown a bit since he’d last seen him and he looked as if he had shrunk, a lot leaner than before.

“What do you want?” Gokudera lifted his head, looking at him as if he was trying to recall the person in front of him, eyes overcast, shadow visible beneath the rims.

Yamamoto straightened himself, raking his hair with his fingers. He was caught staring; it was like being caught stealing.

“Sempai told me what happened.”

“So?”

“I’m worried about you.” His fingers played the hem of his shirt; it would be much easier to confront Gokudera when he didn’t have to see his face.

“Don’t bother.”

Gokudera stood up from the bed and walked towards the window, lighting a cigarette. Yamamoto too walked to the window, leaning against the wall opposite him.

“I know what you were thinking,” He said, raking his hair, “Please don’t go after them.”

Gokudera took an enormous drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke across the room, towards Yamamoto, “What the hell do you know?

“I know you.” He said it. Just like that.

Gokudera gave him the look, one of those looks that could kill you. His gaze that was hard to begin with hardened some more. Yamamoto felt his stomach tighten.

“You piece of shit. You think you know everything,” Gokudera hissed.

Yamamoto said nothing. It took most of his strength not to yank the other man and shake him hard. He watched the man in front of him as he fidgeted with his lighter, wondering when they had grown so much, grown apart from each other.

“Leave me alone!”

“No. I can’t,” he countered, his voice raising just a little. Than he drop his voice, almost pleading as he said, “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not—” Gokudera began but stopped abruptly like he had forgotten what he wanted to say. He looked uncertain.

“Revenge is not the answer,” he felt every bit of a hypocrite as he said that. He understood Gokudera’s frustration because it was something he could relate to because he would be lying if he claimed that he wouldn’t re-act the same if anything happened to the other man.

And they both knew it.

“I don’t need your fucking advice,” Gokudera spat.

“I know you cared about him but—“

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because Gokudera stormed towards him and stood right in front of him.

“Care? Do I look like I care? Fuck you.”

He fisted one hand on Yamamoto’s shirt, pulling him with force towards him, bending him. In that close proximity their breath mingled on the air. They stood so close to each other that Yamamoto could feel the raise and fall of Gokudera’s chest. Their noses touched.

“This is not about caring. This is about him being there when you weren’t,” Gokudera spat and he flinched slightly; Gokudera’s words hurt sometimes.

Yamamoto opened his mouth and closed it, something stuck in his throat preventing him from talking. He couldn’t find a voice. He raised his hand, to touch the face in front of him, but the man caught his wrist and clutched it tight in his grip, “Don’t.”

Then Gokudera smashed his mouth over Yamamoto, crushing him into a forceful kiss that was so swift that he found himself being shoved away before he even realized what happened.

“Gokudera.” His voice cracked, he could feel his heart thumping wildly, bursting through his ribs.

“Just—don’t. Forget about it.” Gokudera looked thunderous, uncontrollable, like he would strike anytime. Yamamoto mentally readied himself for the physical blow.

They were silent for a long moment, staring at each other until Gokudera took a deep breath and stepped back, turning towards the door.

Yamamoto felt something inside him snap as he stared onto Gokudera’s retrieving back.

“At least tell me why.”

Gokudera stopped in his tracks. Yamamoto continued, “Tell me why you kissed me that time,” he muttered softly, not really caring how feeble he sounded.

A moment passed. Gokudera stood still with his hands clenching tight by his sides. He took a sharp breathe and spun around facing Yamamoto.

“Because!” he roared. His voice vibrated throughout the entire room.

“Because...?” Yamamoto tried to keep his voice neutral.

“Because—” Gokudera's tone dropped, there were hint of resignation in his voice, “— because I was selfish and childish and my heart broke into tiny little pieces that day, and I wanted for once, just once, to feel like I was the only one, all right?” His lips curled at the corner, almost like a smile but it wasn’t really a smile, and Yamamoto forgot how to breathe.

“Fuck this! I’m leaving.”

It occurred to him that Gokudera was always leaving. He never stayed long enough for Yamamoto to capture him and never let him go.

He punched the wall next to him. It was all he could do to stop himself from running after the other man.

-

He woke to the sound of his mobile. He opened his eyes and glanced at the clock; it was two-thirty-six in the morning.

“Yamamoto.”

Ryohei’s voice was on the other line. Yamamoto swallowed hard, the last time Ryohei had called him it wasn’t simply for a friendly chat.

“Sempai.”

“Sorry for calling you at this hour Yamamoto but I think you would want to know this.”

The worst possible scenario formed in Yamamoto’s head. “Sempai, Gokudera . . . he’s not—is he?

“No, but it’s not good either. They found him in an ally in the other side of the town. He’s bad—”

“I'll be right there,” he said before Ryohei could finish.

He jumped off from the bed and reached for his pants, his head was spinning wildly from anxiety and uncertainties.

“Don’t go,” came a voice from the bed.

Yamamoto looked down at her. Emi was squeezing the sheets with both of her hands, hard enough that her knuckles were turning white. He hated how torn he felt, hating himself for not even stopping as he turn around to pull up his pants.

“I have to go. This is important to me.” He dressed in a rush, randomly snatching a shirt from the drawer.

“Takeshi,” she said, and when he turned around again she looked up at him with a pained expression. He fixed his gaze on the tiny buttons of her nightdress, he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Emi, you don’t understand—”

“I do understand! But this is important too. Don’t you think us is important?”

For a few seconds there was only silence, Yamamoto opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words, he only managed one word, “Emi...”

“I won’t be here anymore when you come back.”

“Emi!”

“It’s your choice.”

“Please don’t do this. I don’t want us to end up this way—”

“Goodbye, Takeshi,” she cut him off.

He wanted to stay, really he wanted to, but it was far too late and he had fallen too deep. If he had remained just a little longer, he would have seen her cry.

-

It was one of those times where he felt so helpless that he felt like crying. Gokudera was lying on the bed with bruises, cuts, and burn marks all over his body. There were stitches below his jaw and above his left eyebrow, and thick bandages wrapped around his abdomen. They were stained with blood.

But Yamamoto had to smile to himself. Even bloody and broken, Gokudera made such a pretty picture. Yamamoto could his feel self control frayed, and he bent down, pressing his mouth lightly on the man’s lips because it was something that he had been dying to do, needed to do, something that he had never allowed himself to do before this moment.

Gokudera stirred restlessly, eyes opening slowly, blinking against the lights than glared weakly towards Yamamoto next to him.

“You’re a terrible kisser.”

He let a muffled laugh escape from his lips, “Well, this is awkward.”

“Tch.”

Yamamoto laughed louder this time, he felt happy and carefree because the man in front of him was all right, breathing and speaking to him.

“You look like shit.”

“You look worse,” Yamamoto said and it was true.

His gazed lingered at the battered face, and for a fleeting moment he wished he could do something, anything that could make up for the time they had lost, the time they spent tripping around each other’s emotion, the pain and sadness that he had caused, and everything else that had happened.

But he knew full well that he couldn’t.

Yamamoto reached out his hand and took the other man’s hand in his, grateful as Gokudera did not resist his touch. There was no running away this time, for both of them, so he gathered his wits, took a deep long breath, “Gokudera, I want to— I just..,” he paused, breathing, “.. God, this is weird but, I lo—“

“Remember that stupid baseball glove you gave me on my seventeenth birthday?” Gokudera asked him suddenly, cutting him off.

The sudden question threw him so off that he answered almost automatically, ”You threw it on my face.”

“I still have it.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“I still do.”

“But you didn’t throw it away. Why?”

“Beats me.”

Gokudera smiled his brilliant smile, despite his obvious distress. The only time he had smiled like that at Yamamoto was on his wedding day.

Silence descended between them but it was comfortable. It had been a while since they actually talked, without one of them snapping at the other one. Yamamoto thought back fondly to the times they had spent together, walking back from school, eating shushi, doing homework with Tsuna- he felt sixteen all over again.

“Fuck.” Gokudera suddenly wheezed and he made a pained sound in the back of his throat.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Peachy,” he said dryly, then, “I need a cigarette.”

“You need a rest.”

“I’m all right—just that- I think I’m a little tired.” He paused and winced slightly as if he was struggling with something within him, he did sound tired to Yamamoto, not only physically but emotionally, “I just realized that I spent most of my life fighting you,” he paused to breath, “-but never for you.”

Yamamoto was overwhelmed with anguish, that was the most depressing thing Gokudera ever said to him but he completely understood, after all they both were just a natural victim of love.

He said, “I don’t like to fight.”

“But I should’ve . . . fought for you that time—I didn’t-”

His last words slurred slightly and then slowly Gokudera closed his eyes. His breathing evened and he lost consciousness as the drug kicked in his system.

“I love you,” Yamamoto mouthed, the words barely escaping from his lips. He experimented it, tasting the words as it flowed from his lips. Somehow it felt right.

He said it again, louder this time, and it felt damn right.

-

Ryohei threw him a glance, “It’s getting late. Shouldn’t you go back to your wife by now?”

He glanced back at Ryohei who was suddenly looking a decade older than his age; there were visible lines beneath his eyes and at the crack of his lips, probably from laughing too much. Extreme laughs, his sempai would call it. He then realized that it had been a while since either one of them had laughed like they used to.

Yamamoto directed his attention at the floor, “I don’t think I can go back after this.”

“Why?”

“Things changed. Things wouldn’t be the same anymore.” This might not be the whole answer but it was the closest to the truth.

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

Yamamoto almost laughed. He would have if it wasn’t for the seriousness of the other man’s voice. He just shrugged in reply.

“I might want to rejoin the family.” He said after a while.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Ryohei asked, disbelieved, “What about Emi? Have you told her?”

“No,” he sighed, “I don’t think she would like it.”

“Then why are you doing this? Why are you risking your marriage? Kyoko and Tsuna’s relationship survives because she was with the family from the beginning, same goes for Bianchi and me, but Emi—” Ryohei voice trailed off, he let the sentence unfinished.

“This is for the best.”

“For whom?”

“The best for Emi is not being with me.”

“And the best for you?”

“Here.” He smiled, somehow feeling soothed at his own admission.

 “You love him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Does it even matter?” He repeated the sentence that was once thrown to him.

Their eyes locked for a moment before he dropped his head, burying his face in his hands. He let a few seconds pass before he spoke again.

“There was never a game, sempai,” he said, his voice muffled from the crack of his fingers, he lowered his head as if he was talking to the floor, “I knew that for some time now and there were no turning back. This is what I do. This is what we do.” Then he pulled himself up, lifting his head, looking straight ahead.

“Game over.” He whispered to the wall.

No words were spoken after that. They stared blankly at the wall as they sat outside the infirmary, both with their own thoughts running in their heads.

Later, when he reached home, the house was quiet, nothing changed— there were dishes stacked on the sink, remote on the sofa, and his old baseball magazines still piled up on the coffee table.

Everything remained as he left them except there was no Emi at sight.

-

He was standing in front of the mirror for the past fifteen minutes concentrating on the task of fixing his tie. The tie was given to him by Gokudera few years ago; it was dark blue with specs of a maroon flowery pattern on the surface. It was his favorite tie.

When he was satisfied he smiled towards his own reflections, he brushed his hair lightly with his fingers before he stepped out from the bathroom.

He glanced at the window as he walked through the hall towards the main entrance. The sunlight peeking through the window pane and he squinted slightly. His feet made a familiar sound as he walked throughout the hall. He had taken the base as his permanent home a few days ago.

As he stepped outside he smiled again. It was a beautiful day, the sky was bright, clear, and the weather couldn’t have been nicer— a painfully perfect day for Gokudera’s funeral.

But Yamamoto would rather if it was raining.

“Hey baseball freak. Stop brooding. You look like shit when you do that.”

His smile never faltered as he walked towards the car where Tsuna and the rest of the remaining guardians were waiting for him.

Perhaps, the pain would go away someday. Eventually.

-

I miss you.

-