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Hayato is dizzy with blood loss, and it’s a fact that’s concerning in more ways than one.
“Shit,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his injured side. It’s going to take a lot more than a gunshot wound to do something like kill him, but this is definitely going to slow him down.
It also doesn’t help that it’s been weeks since he last ate.
“Shit,” he says again. You’d think eternal life would be less of a bitch, but the caveats have Hayato backed into an unpleasant corner.
He’s been separated from Yamamoto for close to an hour, each of them going their separate ways to accomplish their respective missions: Hayato heading to collect intel on box weapon research that absolutely shouldn’t be within the Luciano famiglia, and Yamamoto present to eliminate any targets trying to intercept Hayato’s path.
Hayato’s portion of the mission has been successful, of course. Nothing short of an apocalyptic event could prevent him from doing as the Tenth asks, but he’d been too distracted skimming through the files they’d acquired to realize that Yamamoto hadn’t gotten to one of the grunts still milling about the base they’ve invaded.
The one fucker in this joint with silver bullets, too.
They must have known which Guardians would be infiltrating their base, which is its own headache. It means there’s a leak somewhere within the Vongola, and shit. Hayato has way too much going on right now to filter out a mole.
He curses for a third time, just to hear the sound of it filling the air. The woman who had shot him is lying in a puddle of her own blood, which is tempting in its own right, but Hayato’s side sears with pain, and he doesn’t know if any more may be coming. He can't afford to be caught off-guard with an injury like this, and prepares for the worst as footsteps, calm and sure, echo from the hallway.
His hands are slightly shaky, but Hayato still levels his gun at the entrance to the room he's hiding in as a figure comes into view.
“Oh,” Hayato says, simultaneously thankful and annoyed as familiar spiky hair and a satisfied grin greets him in return. “It’s just you.”
"You could act happier to see me!" Yamamoto says, gesturing to himself proudly. His sword rests in his other hand, idle but still out, which means they haven't eliminated every threat within the building, yet.
“Took you long enough to get here, baseball idiot,” Hayato says. "How many are left?"
“Just a few, but they're on the other end of the compoud. Are you alright?” Yamamoto asks, eyeing Hayato’s side with concern. The black of his suit jacket conceals the injury well, but Hayato’s still pressing a hand against the wound, and his fingers are sticky with blood.
He grits his teeth against the pain as he forces himself into standing. “Nothing that can’t wait to be treated until we’re at the safe house. Let's get out of here."
Maybe it's bad practice not to kill everyone in their path to leave a dearth of witnesses, but Hayato knows Yamamoto well enough by now. If there are any members of the Luciano left alive, they're probably low-ranking enough that they'll cut their losses as the famiglia collapses. Unrelated to the corruption, as it were. Avoided casualties, because despite the fact that Yamamoto's an excellent assassin, he still has far too big a heart for their work, sometimes.
They make it out of the enemy base with only a few hours before sunrise to spare, and Hayato grimaces against Yamamoto’s side.
“Are you sure you’re okay?"
Hayato shoves Yamamoto's shoulder. "This isn't my first fucking rodeo, moron. I'm fine."
"Okay," Yamamoto says, but he doesn't sound convinced. It takes everything within Hayato not to waver as he removes himself from Yamamoto's supportive grip and hop into their getaway car.
Once their car doors shut, Hayato settles against the leather passenger seat, enjoying the quiet of the car. The Vongola sprung for only the highest quality of vehicular transportation, which means that the bulletproof glass windows are also blessedly soundproof, as well as tinted dark enough to protect Hayato from the inevitable glare of the sun.
Hayato lets his eyes slip closed and focuses intently on not breathing. Yamamoto’s drenched in the blood of their enemies, and it’s not helping his current state of mind.
“What do you need?” Yamamoto asks. He hasn’t started the car yet, probably still staring stupidly at Hayato’s face like he’s about to perish in front of him.
“You to shut up and drive, preferably,” Hayato responds, kicking his legs up on the dash. He opens his eyes to confirm Yamamoto's current expression, and scowls in return.
Yamamoto doesn’t even flinch at his tone. “You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean!”
So it’s going to be like this. Muttering a curse in Italian, Hayato jerks his phone out of the back pocket of his slacks and fires off a quick text. “There. Problem solved. Spanner’s got a robot dropping off an extra shipment of blood to our destination.”
Yamamoto pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and worries it. “You sure that’ll be enough?”
Oh, god, Hayato’s going to die from the misery of having to experience Yamamoto beating around the bush regarding whatever the hell he wants to say.
“Get to the point, idiot.”
“You could drink from me.”
Hayato’s so floored by the audacity of his idiot partner that he can’t do anything but gape for a few moments. They sit in silence, Yamamoto’s words hanging in the air, an unwanted presence that has Hayato’s skin itching.
“Drive the fucking car,” he hisses finally, wishing that he hadn’t sworn to Reborn not to use any form of glamour on any member of the Vongola. “And I’m going to pretend you didn’t suggest something so stupid.”
Yamamoto gestures to Hayato’s side. “You’re hurt. I can help.”
“You have three seconds or I’m kicking you out and heading there alone.”
“I’m serious!” Yamamoto insists. He still has not, Hayato notices, made any effort to turn the car on. The damn keys are even sitting in the ignition, but there’s a distinct lack of an engine starting.
Hayato’s grown better at keeping his temper under control, these days, but even he has a limit. “So am I,” he growls, and clambers over the middle console of the car. He grabs a fistful of Yamamoto’s clothes, intent on shoving him out so he can settle into the driver’s seat and leave the sword-wielding moron in the dust to think about his brainless actions.
Instead, a warm hand slips beneath his suit jacket as Hayato sets to shoving him out of the seat, pressing gently against his injury. Hayato freezes in both pain and surprise, and realizes rather abruptly that maybe this wasn’t the most well-thought out of ideas.
He tries to suck in a calming breath to ground him from blowing Yamamoto up where he sits — not strictly necessary, given the fact that oxygen isn’t a necessity to him anymore, but more of a calming habit he’s picked up over the years to blend in with the rest of the human population — and immediately realizes his mistake.
Yamamoto smells like blood.
None of it is his, of course, he’s far too proficient an assassin to be injured by anyone as weak as this small famiglia, but Hayato’s baser instincts don’t care about details like that.
Food, his mind purrs, and beneath his lips, he can feel his fangs extending against his will.
Yamamoto’s hands have slipped down to his hips, keeping him in place between the steering wheel and his partner’s fucking lap, and yeah, he’s definitely miscalculated.
He makes a break for it, a hand shooting out for the handle of the door — god, he’ll fucking walk away from this mission, at this point, and swears never to go to work hungry again if it means he can escape this shitshow of a situation — but Yamamoto’s quicker, pressing down on the button that locks all of the doors. The snick of them locking feels deafening in the quiet of the car.
It isn’t often that Hayato truly sees the flawless assassin that rests beneath Yamamoto’s easygoing exterior, but as their eyes meet, there's no question as to who is calling the shots right now. Yamamoto looks back at him levelly, challenging Hayato in a way that has his hackles raising.
“Come on,” Yamamoto soothes, like Hayato’s a frightened animal or some bullshit. “Drink. I can tell you want to.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Hayato says, but the protest sounds weak even to his own ears. How the fuck is he supposed to cope with this?
It'd be a lie for Hayato to say he’s never thought about it, before.
Yamamoto's bled around him before, and it's always been a temptation that's lurked in the back of his mind. But it's one thing to contemplate what it could be like between them while hidden in the dark privacy of his room, and it's another thing entirely to have Yamamoto in front of him like this, practically begging for Hayato to bite him.
Venom fills Hayato’s mouth, thick and pungent, and he swallows it down nervously. This is going to change things, he just fucking knows it, and it's exactly why he wanted to do everything within his power to even prevent a conversation like this from happening.
Maybe he can glamour Yamamoto into forgetting it, and plan on grovelling to Reborn once they get back to the Vongola compound. (Because Reborn finds out fucking everything, no matter what.)
"Hayato," Yamamoto says softly, interrupting his thoughts, and it's the final straw.
“Fuck,” Hayato says under his breath, teetering on the precipice of no return. He thinks, Ah, hell, and takes the plunge.
His teeth sink into the side of Yamamoto’s neck like a knife through butter, settling into the thick muscle as sunshine bursts across his tongue.
Blood always tastes like blood, coppery and wonderful, but every human has their own tinges of flavor. Hayato had never questioned it before, accepting the slightest of differences between the blood bags delivered to him weekly, but now he's questioning why the hell he's never done this before.
He groans against Yamamoto’s neck, overwhelmed at the sweet taste of sustenance, and feels Yamamoto shudder beneath his lips.
"Oh,” Yamamoto gasps a few seconds later, which means Hayato’s venom has taken effect.
Submission is a vital part of the feeding process, and vampires have adapted across the centuries to make the process more enjoyable for the victims. It’s fatally addictive, the thrum of pure pleasure humming throughout your entire body as you’re sucked dry of the life force that pumps through your veins, and so many die happy without truly realizing what’s happening.
Hayato’s going to have to be extremely careful, here.
He’s already hungry, which tips the scales dangerously against Yamamoto, but on top of his yearning for sustenance, the silver bullet in his abdomen is slowly poisoning him. It’s an agonizing ache that has no remedy but fishing out the bullet itself, and though Hayato’s body doesn’t run the risk of infection if he does it in unsanitary conditions, the injury isn't serious enough that he's desperate to do it before there’s a comfortable bed to rest in once it’s out.
It’s even more difficult with Yamamoto beneath him, moaning like a goddamn porno. His fingers press into Hayato’s hips with fervor, and Hayato knows that under different circumstances, his skin would bruise against the tight grip. Hayato doesn’t have enough blood in his system right now to do typically human things, like bruise or even get hard, but on a better day, this process is usually… much more mutually beneficial.
As it is, Yamamoto is definitely pleased, if the hardness Hayato’s currently sitting on is any indication.
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto groans, as if summoned into speaking by Hayato’s thoughts. “This feels—”
As he speaks, a torrent of blood fills Hayato’s mouth from the movements of his throat muscles. He stifles a groan himself, overwhelmed by the taste and the sheer warmth that Yamamoto radiates, from his body heat to the scalding temperature of his blood over Hayato’s tongue.
Nothing beats live feeding: for the sake of the Vongola, and for the Tenth, Hayato has mostly sworn off of doing this to humans, and he’s sorely missed how fulfilling the experience can be.
He knows he needs to stop soon. He’s the voice of reason here, not the pleasure-drenched human underneath him, but — he tastes so fucking good. This was exactly what Hayato had been dreading. With a literal taste of Yamamoto, he’s not sure how he’ll ever go back to lukewarm bags of blood. Feeding is an intimate process for vampires, and the connection fills him with a warmth that feels unrelated to the blood coursing through him.
Yamamoto makes a noise in his throat, and then fingers are sliding against his scalp, and Hayato's mouth is torn away from the appetizing neck. “I want — want to kiss you—”
What the hell?
Gokudera’s drained a lot of humans over the years, but he’s never drank from someone so… aggressive while under the thrall of his venom. It’s startling enough that he finds himself complying, blood smearing across Yamamoto’s lips as he mouths messily against Hayato’s own. The endorphins swimming through Yamamoto’s system have obviously messed with his motor functions, rendering him clumsy and overzealous, but kissing him feels good, however sloppy the execution is.
It’s not as good as drinking his blood is, but Hayato’s feeling one hundred times better already. (Surely it’s all due to the blood.)
Hayato shifts in Yamamoto’s lap so he can lap at the slowing trail of blood still oozing from his neck — his venom will also do the baseball idiot the favor of healing the bite marks into nothingness — when Yamamoto jerks, his entire spine arching as he tenses, mouth parted in a wordless moan.
He reels back in disbelief. “Did you just—”
“Wow,” Yamamoto says dazedly. He slumps against the car seat, spent, looking unfairly gorgeous and disheveled. “Reborn told me a little about the process, but I didn’t expect it to feel that good.”
With fresh blood thrumming through him, Hayato can feel his cheeks heat up. “Reborn told you what? ”
“We’ve been partners for years,” Yamamoto starts, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his head. “And I always figured this would happen at some point, so I asked for some tips on how to make sure everything would go alright, because I know you’re weird about the whole vampire thing, but it felt even better than what I’ve imagined before!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hayato interrupts, feeling mortified and furious all at once. He yanks himself out of Yamamoto's arms and heaves his body across the console again until he's back in the passenger seat. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. Drive the fucking car.”
“Of course, haha!” Yamamoto says, voice chipper and unashamed as though he didn’t just come in his fucking pants and then admit to having had fantasies about this exact scenario before.
Hayato has no idea how any of this just happened, but god, some tiny (minuscule, definitely-not-enormous) part of him hopes it'll happen again.