Drabble 1 - 8059

Title: A million bright ambassadors of morning
Characters:Yamamoto/Gokudera
Rating: G
Summary: Yamamoto experiences his first morning in Gokudera’s apartment.


There was a tree in front of Gokudera’s apartment building, a great, towering oak with a sprawling spread of branches, cloaked in green in the summer, gray and dormant in the winter.  On stormy nights, it clawed at the bricks of the house, scratching at Gokudera’s bedroom window like a cat desperate to come in from the rain, but now, in the soft glow of morning, it was still, merely serving as a roost for a menagerie of sparrows and finches that were using their songs as a harbinger of the new day.

Yamamoto’s eyelids twitched in protest against the light slanting in across his face, and he dragged the pillow over his head in a superficial attempt to ward off the twitters and chirps, but by then it was pointless to try going back to sleep.  Grunting, he stretched, feeling disused muscles and tendons come back to life, before letting an arm fall across Gokudera.

Who…was not there.

Yamamoto rolled over onto the empty stretch of mattress and pressed his face into Gokudera’s pillow.  It smelled like him—well, everything in the room smelled like Gokudera, but the pillow especially.

The door to the bedroom was cracked open, and Yamamoto could hear Gokudera’s grumbling voice drifting in from either the living room or the kitchen.  A few clanks and thumps accompanied it, so probably the kitchen.  

After locating his boxers near the foot of the bed, Yamamoto pulled them over his hips before padding out to him.  He wondered if Gokudera was cooking breakfast.  Usually Yamamoto was the one to get up early and fry up some eggs and bacon, but then again he was usually in his own home.  Alright, so he was always in his own home—this was the first time Gokudera had let him spend the night, and well, Yamamoto couldn’t help the warm glow he felt behind his ribs at what that meant.

He found Gokudera in the kitchen, waving a can opener and cursing like a sailor.  There was a distinct lack of sizzling coming from the stove, but there was a spitting feline on the counter.

“Damnit, just wait a second,” Gokudera shouted—probably at Uri, since it didn’t look like Yamamoto had been noticed yet.  Uri responded with a growl and a swat.

“Haha, I take it she’s not a morning perso—er, cat,” Yamamoto said between yawning and scratching at his chest.  Gokudera whipped around, brandishing the can opener.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” he said, relaxing minutely until Uri swished her tail against the back of his head.  “Cut it out, damn cat!”

Yamamoto leaned against the opposite counter and watched Gokudera slice open a can of cat food and dump it on a plate while making a futile attempt to keep Uri away until he could set it on the floor.  Huffing in exasperation, Gokudera finally gave up and let the cat be.  Once free of distractions, Yamamoto dragged Gokudera closer with an arm heavy and warm over his shoulders.

“I didn’t know you fed her breakfast,” he said with a hum in the back of his throat.  “What does she do when you stay over at my place?”

Gokudera snorted.  “She doesn’t need it—she just assumes that since I get breakfast, she gets breakfast.  Sits on my face if I don’t get up to feed her before six.  Now move, I need to get into the cupboard.”  He pushed Yamamoto to the side and rummaged through  the cabinets, pulling out a small frying pan.

“Oh, do I get fed, too?” Yamamoto asked, chuckling when Gokudera rolled his eyes.

“You’ll whine if I let you go hungry,” Gokudera said, pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge.  “Besides, you always cook for me when I come over, so…”  He trailed off and turned to the stove, intent on coating the pan with oil and cracking the eggs with care, but Yamamoto could see the flush across the back of his neck.  He hugged him from behind.

“Need any help?” he asked, leaning his chin on Gokudera’s shoulder and watching him season the bubbling eggs.

Gokudera shrugged him off, but he said, “There’s orange juice in the fridge, if you want some, and we’ll be needing plates and forks.”

Uri glared at Yamamoto when he reached over her to pull out the flatware, the orange juice tasted just this side of the expiration date, and Gokudera salted the eggs too much, but the sun was shining, the birds were still singing in the tree outside, and Yamamoto hoped he could look forward to a thousand more identical mornings.  From the soft glint of Gokudera’s eyes, Yamamoto could tell that he was hoping for the same.