tessarine

but no seriously i'm foregoing the moe dedication because this fst has made me bleed and love is dead

streaming at the bottom.

ordinary day ▩ vanessa carlton
	and as he spoke, he spoke ordinary words although they did not feel for I felt what I had not felt before and you'd swear those words could heal
		The thing is, Yamamoto likes ball games and he likes sword games. He likes feeling his lungs burn for air, his muscles strain and quiver in protest, likes the roar of approval from an audience. He lives for those things, even. But when he’s in those moments, the immediacy of the sharp crack of ball on bat or steel on steel fades away, and what he’s thinking of is how it feels when he flops on his back to soak in the rooftop sun and watches Tsuna poking through his bento, Gokudera gesticulating wildly over his lunch in the middle of some incomprehensible point on the nature of math. Because the thing really is, it’s the ordinary moments that Yamamoto works so hard to be extraordinary enough to deserve.
skyway avenue ▩ we the kings
	it all got so mundane with you I'm back again just take me by the hand we're close to the edge
		He kind of expected that, after everything, he’d like heights a little less. Maybe he should feel sick when stepping out onto a bridge, or find himself staring at the railing and feel a little awkward and waiting for something untoward to cross his mind. It just made sense, in a way. He waited for it, but somehow that moment never came. Instead, he found himself standing on the bank overlooking the river with Tsuna, grinning widely at Tsuna’s anxious expression. “It can’t be that cold,” he insisted, and over Tsuna’s protests grabbed his hand--and leaped.
mercy ▩ onerepublic
	angel of mercy, how did you find me? how did you pick me up again? angel of mercy, how did you move me? why am I on my feet again?
		It’s not that Yamamoto doesn’t know that it was an accident. He’s always known, more or less. It’s just that it never mattered. Tsuna’s life, Yamamoto thinks, hinges on a series of happy accidents powered by Tsuna’s relentless, near-coincidental benevolence. Whether Tsuna stumbled onto the roof because he was lost, or because everyone else went, or because he was pushed, or because he was worried, or some combination of all of them--it just never mattered. Because the fact was that he had come.
heartbeat ▩ the fray
	you got a fire and it's burning in the rain thought that it went out, but it's burning just the same and you don't look back, not for anything
		In the few months Yamamoto’s known him, he thinks he’s seen every expression Tsuna possesses. Which is more impressive than it sounds, really. Tsuna has a singularly expressive face that can move from dismay to a wide-eyed grin in the space of a heartbeat. But there’s something about the way Tsuna picks himself up off the ground, wipes the dirt off his face; something about the sharp, bright look in Tsuna’s eyes when he digs in his heels and stands his ground, something about the way his eyes can narrow slightly and his gentle mouth can firm into an unyielding line, that makes Yamamoto forget the rest of the world for the length of just a breath.
big bad world ▩ plain white t's
	just running 'round in circles tripping over every hurdle we're just trying to do the best that we can it's a big bad life, all that we can do is try to make it right
		Yamamoto, unbeaten in baseball since age eight, had become accustomed to (though never quite accepting of) the sense of defeat since joining Tsuna’s Mafia Game. He still hated losing. It hadn’t gotten any easier, but he knew how much stronger he’d become through learning from his losses and adapting his style. Even Squalo had grudgingly acknowledged his growth. There was only one one area that seemed to be improving not at all. “You first,” he told Tsuna, eyeing their overturned papers with some trepidation. Tsuna frowned, scrunched his eyes shut, and flipped. Thirty, the flipped exam revealed. “Forty,” Yamamoto announced as he turned his, and laughed.
echo off the sky ▩ poema
	so we're gonna sing it now until the very last light goes out and then close our mouths and listen to hear listen to hear ourselves echo off the sky tonight this is what life could be like
		They had had a tent, originally. It lasted about thirty minutes, which Yamamoto thought was pretty good, everything else considered. Then there’d been something of an incident with Ryohei, a bear, and some of Gokudera’s prototype dynamite. “It’s kind of pretty.” Tsuna groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes as if to block out the brightness of the stars (classic Tsuna, Yamamoto thought). “I think that one’s a big spoon, or something?” he continued, pointing up at the constellations cheerfully. It was a few seconds before Tsuna finally slid his arm away to look. “I don’t know.” But Tsuna smiled, and Yamamoto grinned back. Even without the tent he felt that much warmer.
sing to you ▩ amely
	so listen to me I'm gonna make you proud keep your high from ever touching ground I'll be your strength when you are feeling down
		Admittedly, he hadn’t been thinking of much at all when he’d taken the ring. Tsuna had said he’d get his rematch, and that was as far as he’d listened before his brain had shut down. His fingers were closing around the cold metal and impressing the rain crest in his skin before he’d really known what was happening. Afterward, when Squalo had finally shouted the explanation at him, it had seemed so obvious he’d all but shrugged it off. Settling accounts, sure. It was his job to keep Tsuna from worrying too much. What else had he been doing all along, anyway?
say it again ▩ marié digby
	the thing about you is you know just how to get me you talk about us like there's no end in sight the thing about me is that I really wanna let you open the door and walk into my life
		Yamamoto thinks nothing of what must be his fifteen millionth box of Valentine’s chocolates. “Thanks,” he tells the girl offering them over, with a very genuine smile. It’s nice of her. He’ll remember her name and give her something back on White Day, because it’d be kind of lousy not to. Later, he pushes the box towards Tsuna in offering, and thinks nothing of it. “Wonder if they’re hard to make?” He eyes the store-bought chocolate curiously, popping one into his mouth and musing if his dad has any advice on this distinctly not fish-related topic. “Maybe?” Tsuna accepts one after all, maybe just to be polite, and for just a moment or two Yamamoto wonders--just a little--what it would be like to try to give Tsuna a box of his own.
you're an ocean ▩ fastball
	make the warm winds circle round my head just like you do if I could do it, I'd be doing it to you I believe, I'd buy whatever you would sell to me nothing in my life ever came with a guarantee
		It’s kind of amazing how Tsuna never ceases to boggle at simple things. “What--” Tsuna squeaks in disbelief at him, “what is that.” Yamamoto shrugs goodnaturedly and resettles his hand on the back of Tsuna’s neck. “Pretty sure that’s a bush, Tsuna.” The bush blinks in agreement, which is confirmation enough for Yamamoto to lean in and try to pick up where he left off, his lips against Tsuna’s. Tsuna’s protest fades against another kiss, and after another minute or two neither of them care if the bush just winked at them and shuffled off.
happily ever after ▩ he is we
	inhale, breathe steady exhale like you’re ready, if you’re ready or not just a boy and a girl trying to take on the world and we want to get caught
		Most people just get to guess at what they’re going to be when he grows up. Yamamoto’s lucky. He’s gotten a sneak peek, a week in a future that could have been his. Turns out, he doesn’t want that one. “There’s a scout coming to the next game.” Tsuna rolls over, blinks at him. There’s a span of unspoken possibilities between them. The paths he could pursue, things that might take him far away. He opens his mouth to speak again when Tsuna smiles. Their fingers brush, reaching for each other at the same moment. “Good luck,” Tsuna tells him, and his voice is warm.

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who cooks normally?: definitely Yamamoto. If there's some kind of situation where it has to be Hibari, either they're both doomed or Hibari is just going to deploy some subordinate/an animal to acquire food.

how often do they fight?: sparring-wise, probably pretty regularly, like a few times a week. argument-wise, pretty rarely. hibari gets his feathers ruffled almost daily but those aren't really arguments. fight-fights are fairly rare, on account of Yamamoto is mellow and Hibari has to feel like it's actually worth the effort to do more than snark and walk away.

what do they do when they’re away from each other?: sleep, carry on with their lives? Hibari needs a lot of away space and Yamamoto is pretty used to that.

nicknames for each other?: none on Hibari's part. Yamamoto calling him "Kyouya" probably counts, though.

who is more likely to pay for dinner?: Hibari isn't really going to fight for this one, in general. If he feels like there's an imbalanced debt he'll pay, otherwise he lets Yamamoto take it.

who steals the covers at night?: Hibari is by far the more aggressive sleeper. He probably wakes up specifically to rearrange the covers to his liking/steal them all and then goes back to sleep.

what would they get each other for gifts?: they're both people with an appreciation for nice things/tactile things/Japanese culture, so nice kimono are a safe bet. Also things like weapons/weapon care kits, food, really good sake, etc.

who kissed who first?: Yamamoto > Hibari

who made the first move?: Hibari made lots of moves, probably none of them with any kind of thought towards relationships/fucking, so Yamamoto made the first purposeful move.

who remembers things?: Both of them, but Yamamoto is the one who's more likely to make an occasion of things. Hibari grumpily gets anniversary gifts/similar just to make sure he doesn't somehow end up in Yammaoto's debt, in his perception.

who started the relationship?: Yamamoto. jury is still out on whether Hibari counts it or not. It's not the kind of thing he comments on.

who cusses more?: Yamamoto? neither of them cuss a lot at all, but Hibari's way of speaking is definitely more excruciatingly polite.

what would they do if the other one was hurt?: Hibari's not the type to fuss, but he'd definitely help Yamamoto wrap up wounds. He also has a possessive streak and he's liable to take action if he sees something as an attack on one of his, so retribution is likely.

big spoon/little spoon: by virtue of being like a foot taller Yamamoto's sort of default big spoon. But sometimes Tsuna probably is and it's hilarious.

favorite non-sexual activity: video games and procrastinating homework when they're kids, procrastinating paperwork when they're adults

who uses all the hot water: both of them. both. (^_-)-☆

most trivial thing they fight over: hahahahahahahahahahahaha

assuming Tsuna's indignant cheekpuffing counts as an argument, probably Yamamoto's irresistable urge to use Tsuna as an armrest.

who does most of the cleaning: neither? Tsuna probably does more of the dishes, Yamamoto cooks, both of them pick stuff up if they're tripping over it or whatever.

what has a season pass on their dvr/who controls the netflix queue: Yamamoto needs to record all of the baseball games. all of them. Other than that, whatever, anything goes! Probably usurps Tsuna's netflix queue to add horror movies sometimes and trololol quietly to himself.

who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working: whoever notices it, probably, while the other runs interference and keeps well-intentioned family from trying to fix it and exploding anything (unsure)

who steals the blankets: the pets or the kids, most often

who leaves their stuff around: both, but looking at their rooms... this one is definitely more on Tsuna.

who remembers to buy the milk: YAMAMOTO. DEFINITELY YAMAMOTO.

who remembers anniversaries: both!

“You know,” Yamamoto told him, seated backwards in one of the other piercing parlor chairs with his long legs sprawled haphazardly before him, “most people get one on each ear. When they get two.”

Gokudera rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to jerk his head, trapped by the girl patiently swabbing his ear with alcohol. He suspected Yamamoto had timed it like that on purpose. He was stupid, but cunning.

“Don’t think so hard. You’ll strain something,” he finally retorted. Yamamoto laughed, a tactic neatly calculated to be as maddening as possible. A stalling tactic; he couldn’t argue with a laugh, though God knew over the last seven years he had tried.

The piercings were quick, almost painless, two sudden punctures and then nothing. He didn’t flinch. Yamamoto watched the whole process with that weird quiet look in his eyes that said something was going on in his head, inasmuch as that ever happened. Past empirical evidence suggested a roughly sixty-five percent chance that Gokudera was going to want to kill him for whatever it was later. Forewarned, he tried a quelling look when Yamamoto opened his mouth again. It had never, to date, actually worked, but the possibility was always nonzero. Some part of him must’ve believed that or there was no explaining why he was still willing to be seen anywhere in public with Yamamoto.

“Looks good,” was all Yamamoto said, and when no amount of suspicious staring provoked anything Gokudera could smite him for he only grunted in answer.

“Yeah. ‘Course it does.”

Tsuna blanched a little the first time he saw it, predictably. Tsuna wasn’t really the type who went in for recreationally punching holes in his body. Yamamoto, who considered a weekly Squalo-baiting to be the height of hilarious good fun, naturally understood.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Not really, Tenth,” Gokudera was quick to reassure him. Tsuna’s fingertips brushed feather-light and hesitant over the helix of his ear, carefully above the piercings, and Gokudera shivered with a sensation that had nothing to do with pain. The pads of Tsuna’s fingers took careful inventory, touching both piercings in turn gently enough to barely jar them. Two.

He wouldn’t have explained himself for anyone else. For Tsuna, who never needed the explanation in the first place, he always tried: “‘S a reminder.”

“Huh,” Yamamoto pronounced thoughtfully.

It was easy to forget, with as big as Yamamoto was, just how quietly he could move. There wasn’t really any space left to jump--Yamamoto’s arm closed around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. Too close to be headbutted effectively, but Gokudera put his palm to the man’s forehead and shoved pointedly just for the form of things.

“Oh.” Tsuna blinked, studying the small cuffs again with solemn eyes, and finally smiled almost wryly. Gokudera smiled back. It was always instant with Tsuna, catalytic chemicals in action, and he could ignore the enormous dipshit leaning heavily on him for the moment.

“You didn’t have to,” Tsuna finally finished, but kissed him so softly that he could still feel the way his lips were curved in a smile.

“Could’ve just gotten you a memo book, or something--oof.”

Tsuna silenced Yamamoto with another kiss, more efficient than Gokudera’s elbow to his gut, effectively sparing Yamamoto’s life for a few more seconds. At least for as long as the silence lasted.

The only portrait the Vongola had of Secondo was littered with inaccuracies. According to the artist Riccardo towered a good foot or more above lesser men, had arms the approximate girth of tree limbs, and wore a perpetual scowl. His flames of wrath had a shimmering glow like fairydust and served primarily to halo the heavy ring he wore on his right hand, emblazoned proudly with the Vongola crest.

In fairness, the scowl was entirely accurate.

The artist had set out with the best of intentions; by the time the second sitting for the painting was finished it was mutually concluded that it was impossible to convince the Vongola boss to hold any expression other than “glower” or “distasteful indifference” for more than five consecutive minutes. Executive decisions had been made regarding which expression was best suited to immortalize his memory among the Family.

“Really,” was all Daemon had to say when the portrait was finally completed and hung in prize of place above the sweeping staircase in the grand entrance hall. “How conservative. I expected a lion pelt under your feet. Drinking wine from the skull of a vanquished foe, perhaps.”

The look Secondo shot him suggested that skull could just as easily be his own.

“It’s a reminder. Of exactly who the boss is around here.”

“Mmm. Your guardians do seem to require the visual aid.”

Secondo snorted, raked fingers back through his hair in a way that made the lamplight gleam off his ring, and smiled a slow feral smile at Daemon. It bared markedly more teeth than the one in the portrait; all in all, it was a fairer representation.

“No. If they value their pathetic lives, they won’t.”