you can't save me now, I'm in the grip of a hurricane

Helloooooo!

2015-02-21T21:31:59Z

Once again, it's been a very, very long time. I'm actually still around on the internet, though I almost never visit this site anymore (holy hell and now I see why, I could barely figure out how to navigate it!). This is more a ghost town these days anyway, so uh, if anyone is still here? Hi??

Basically, I'm posting this to let y'all know that hey, I actually am alive and am still writing. A bit. Sorta-kinda. It comes in little fits & spurts, and for now, it's primarily for The Musketeers (BBC), but it's happening. I've also recently managed to get over 10k words written on the next installment for Across the Universe (I know it's been embarrassingly long between updates, but I solemnly swear I have not given up on it yet!). If you're still lurking around here and still want to follow anything that I'm up to, you can feel free to look me up at the sites I'm currently active on:

tumblr | loadthebases
archive of our own / ao3 | doomcake
plurk | doomcake

Hope you all are doing well!

fanfiction || across the universe [khr] :: MASTER FIC POST

2010-07-19T20:54:41Z

PLEASE NOTE: All future Across the Universe fic posts will be hosted on AO3. The older posts here on LJ are staying up for posterity's sake, but the fics themselves won't be here anymore, and any new installments will not result in a post here. If you want to continue to follow this specific series, you can do so here at AO3.

« across the universe »
i'd follow you to the ends of the earth if i had to

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Type: AU fic with canon basis.
Genre: Drama / Angst / Mafia / Hurt/Comfort / Action / Tragedy / Romance
Rating: Sections marked accordingly.
Characters: Yamamoto-centric & Gokudera-centric for the most part; will feature other main KHR cast members as well as a few minor OCs & some alternate versions of characters.
Pairings: 8059/5980 with some AU twists
Warnings: see AO3 for warnings. Summing it up: this fic really isn’t for the faint of heart, or for those of you looking for a fluffy & romantic 8059 romp in KHR rainbow land.
Timeline: Starts as a divergent version of post-TYL arc (I started working on this story long before TYL arc ended in the manga, so don't expect any of the subsequent arcs to show up here. Unless it suddenly becomes convenient for me to include it in the story line, that is.)
♪ across the universe { the beatles / jim sturgess cover }

The Usual Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

{ ATU MASTER FIC LIST }
in recommended reading order
last fic update: August 11, 2022
last layout update: July 2018
as always, sincere apologies for my failtastically slow updates;;;

« dive. » [ M+ ]
Takeshi eyes the glass with that same strange, nostalgic-haunted look. “It’s funny, you know. How some people always reach the same ends, no matter what paths they start out on.”
:: 7,649 words
♪ stairway to heaven { led zeppelin }

☣

pre-dive arc

« house of cards » [ T ]
This—some semblance of normalcy—is something he actually misses, even if he never would admit to it.
:: 4,745 words
♪ peace { george winston }

« every man has a price » [ M~M+ ]
A cold feeling creeps up Gokudera’s spine. Instinct tells him that there is something decidedly off about this entire operation.
:: 5,839 words
♪ all the right moves { onerepublic }

« spiral » [ M ]
The feeling doesn’t last long—one week, maybe two, after they return to Tokyo, Yamamoto begins to notice the small, subtle things. Like the way Gokudera sometimes pretends to sleep to cover up his insomnia, or how he flinches every time a door slams nearby.
:: 10,122 words
♪ freedom fighters { two steps from hell }
♪ falling down { chris brown }

« flipside » [ M ]
It takes a week and a half, but Yamamoto finally catches up to Giacomo in Yokohama.
:: 16,710 words (2 parts)
♪ hurricane { 30 seconds to mars }
♪ falling from heaven { robotaki }
♪ the game has changed { daft punk | tron:legacy ost }</font>

« red sky at morning » [ T ]
Ah, normalcy. These last few months have settled into a nice morning routine, and Gokudera sometimes has a hard time just enjoying them for what they are.
:: 8,169 words
♪ primavera { ludovico einaudi }

« the devil is a bagman » [ M+ ]
Yamamoto barely has a chance to activate his own flames and pull its sword out of its sheath before he’s attacked by one of the Jopok. More seem to come streaming in from the back door of the bar, like they’d been waiting for this fight. It’s clear that this has been part of Lee’s plan since the beginning, and a sick feeling pools in Yamamoto’s stomach as he realizes how outnumbered they are.
:: 16,038 words
♪ have you got it in you { imogen heap }
♪ watercolor { pendulum }

« passaddhi » [ M ]
The Bovino may be one of the longest-standing Vongola allies, and possibly one of the best authorities on messing with the space-time continuum, but that doesn’t mean Gokudera can just waltz in there and demand favors.
:: 14,129 words
♪ letters from the sky { civil twilight }

« the clockmaker's dilemma » [ M ]
Yamamoto grits his teeth and leans protectively over Gokudera’s head. “You’re an unbelievable idiot—do you know that, Hayato?”
:: 33,376 words (2 parts)
♪ writing's on the wall { sam smith }
♪ transmission { zedd feat. logic + x ambassadors }
♪ permanent { david cook }

☣

interlude

« dive. (urgent) » [ M ]
Gokudera hadn't warned him about the vertigo.
:: 8,416 words
♪ find you { nick jonas }
♪ ark ascending { ursine vulpine }
♪ dive { salvatore feat. enya & alex aris }

☣

post-dive arc

« tbd » [ tbd ]
coming eventually but in progress
:: 1,000+ words & counting
♪ tba

I would love to hear from you, so please feel free to comment with any kind of feedback! Comments are always appreciated! /o/

♪♪♪

{ ATU SOUNDTRACK }
which is a work in progress. by which i mean i haven't even started trying to organize it yet, other than the songs that are already tied to fics (and will eventually include "bonus" songs that also had a hand in shaping the soundtrack for this monster).

[UPDATE 2016: Grooveshark has long since been shut down, so I'm working on another way to get this playlist up, though at some point it might be just a list of songs if I'm unsuccessful. At any rate, any song noted above is included and almost all of them can be found on YouTube/Google Play, Apple Music, and/or Spotify... probably other music streaming services as well.]

fanfiction || Petit Four [KHR], 1/1 (ficlet)

2009-01-26T12:13:53Z

// ♪ rock you like a hurricane mix, track four (@ 30_ballads)

Title: 04 – Petit Four
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: A~T (language)
Genre: GEN (unless you count it as bittersweet Gokudera/Bombs?). Suspense/Drama.
Character: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera
Beta: It got a read-through by corelle? 8);;
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

[PROMPT: "4 Minutes" - Madonna (feat. Justin Timberlake & Timbaland)]

→ all 30_ballads installments

Notes: PROOF THAT I STILL WRITE KHR. AND GEN. SO THERE. :P

Totally unexpected fic, man - binge-listened to the song tonight, then the fic just kinda happened in about an hour. ... 8D;; This is the shortest installment I've done for 30_ballads so far (550 words), haha. SHORT FIC IS SHORT. I think I don't mind, though - I knew it was going to be short when the idea popped into my head. It's also kind of a FUCK YOU to the world today, hahaha. :|

AND YES, IT IS FOUR AM ON THE DOT. AHAHA ohgod I am such a dweeb. And I need sleep, clearly. ... I'll post this elsewhere later. ;A;/

--

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
But if I die tonight, at least I can say I did what I wanted to do
Tell me, how about you?
--from Madonna's 4 Minutes

« petit four »

The clock is tick-tick-ticking, each second coming a breath sooner than the last as the commodity of time speeds up and becomes a luxury too expensive to pull in the reins on. It’s like a rock rolling downhill, picking up momentum as gravity’s pull fuels its acceleration, the same way it pulls on the sweat beads forming across Gokudera’s forehead and pulls them into his eyes while he’s trying to pay attention to what he’s doing.

The red numbers are dropping, dropping under the weight of gravity and Gokudera’s sweat and fumbling fingers that are coated in axel grease–

He takes a deep breath, and tries hard not to think too hard about how each second he hesitates, the red-lettered seconds move down. Far more often, he assembles and detonates his own bombs – taking them apart and making them not explode; this is a new realm entirely. Especially since this is someone else’s modification on one of his personal models.

He’s not sure if it’s some sick kind of flattery, or a blatant message to him personally. But this is also a blatant attack against the Vongola – it’s in the half-demolished estate in Osaka, and Gokudera hasn’t had time to think – doesn’t want to think – about what might have happened to the Tenth in the first round of explosions.

Another deep breath, and it takes too long to get his giddy thought train back on the task on hand. Four minutes left. His world is narrowing down to a set of wires and switches and detonators. When one fails, there is at least one failsafe, if not more, to ensure the device does its job. He’s got to find them all, or–

No. Not the Tenth’s time to die. And he keeps working.

Three minutes, thirty seconds.

His hand slips, he loses a breath and two, three heartbeats before he realizes the bomb didn’t explode in his face.

Two minutes, forty-five seconds.

He cuts his finger on a wire, and now his blood is mixing with the sweat and grease on his hands. Is he even getting anywhere?

Two minutes.

Its wiry innards are spilling out of its slit metal belly and the red numbers are still going down down down tick tick tick, like it committed seppuku and somehow managed to survive. And it’s then that Gokudera wonders what it’s like to die.

And who’s going to protect the Tenth when you’re gone? – except, he already knows the answer to this because it’s also on his mind. He doesn’t deserve the consideration, except now all his reasons for stopping this fucking piece of shit are selfish.

Every. Last. One.

One minute, ten seconds.

His heart is pounding in his ears, and at this point, he’s swearing to all the gods he knows – Japanese, Roman, it doesn’t matter which ones – that he’s never going to build another goddamn explosive ever again, so long as he gets out alive.

Forty-five seconds, and he’s berating himself for sounding so weak.

This is a man’s job, and he’s going to do it like a man, or fail like a man.

… He won’t admit that those are tear tracks in the grime and blood on his hands – it’s just more sweat.

Five seconds. Tick – four. He smiles. I’m sorry. Three, two, one –

Click.

// ♪ end track.

… /RUNS AWAY~

fanfiction || Cross Step Tango [KHR], 1/1

2008-12-24T02:01:53Z

Goddammit, I don't think I'm going to have time to post this today if I don't get this part up here now. Hate the title; it's the third one I've taken a hack at, but IDEC anymore, haha. Been a rough day at the ranch, yo. ;A;

Title: Cross Step Tango
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Fluff, Slash (Yes, I said it, dammit. ;A; /shot.)
Request: For binni's Secret Santa @ khr_exchange. For her gift, she requested a fluffy 5980 (Gokudera Hayato x Yamamoto Takeshi) fic that includes ballroom dancing/waltz, rated PG-13. Yes, this is all three. Somewhat. 8);; (Kinda 598059, if you ask me.)
Warnings: ... I really tried, and I'm incredibly sorry if this isn't what you were hoping for! ;A; I clearly need practice writing fluff ~~and slash~~ in any form, haha. Ohgod. Language warning as well, for Gokudera's potty mouth - this is most of the rating RIGHT HERE.

“I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world /not much remembered when the ball is over.”
--Lord Byron

« cross step tango »

Tinny ballroom music permeates the room, punctuated by the sound of scuffling dress shoes scraping across the floor’s polished tile surface, and interrupted occasionally by an instructional growl in Japanese, sometimes a curse in Italian, or a bark of embarrassed laughter when things go utterly wrong.

“One, two, three, then you step to the left – ow! Goddamn it, you idiot; your other left!” Gokudera is scowling, muttering curses in Italian under his breath as he steps back and puts his hand on his knees. “God, sometimes I forget how damn heavy you are!”

“Sorry! Haha…” Yamamoto manages a sheepish look, but he’s still grinning.

Gokudera glares as he steps forward again, shuffling them both back into position irritably. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“Nothing! It’s just–” He steps to the right – no, left – no…

“Get that stupid grin off your face or I’m going to – OW!” Gokudera drops Yamamoto’s hands and steps away, hobbling a little on one foot. Pointing a shaking finger back in Yamamoto’s direction, he growls, “Okay, that’s fucking it. You’re not dancing at the party – it’ll be a goddamned disaster! This is going to make us – make the Tenth – look like fools!”

“But you thought it would be a good idea if–”

Gokudera put a finger up and shook it in Yamamoto’s face, cutting him off. “Shut up. Just… shut up.”

A moment of silence leaves tension buzzing in the air so thickly that Yamamoto is sure he hears it. He shuffles his feet, feeling a little bad that he isn’t living up to Gokudera’s expectations. He knows how important Gokudera thinks this upcoming Christmas party with another mafia family in Italy is for their inter-famiglia relations, and by extension, it should be important to him, too. But it’s not, because it’s kind of funny how mad Gokudera gets every time he accidentally steps the wrong way.

Not that he means to step on Gokudera’s feet every time, of course.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally – guiltily. “I don’t mean to disappoint you.”

There’s a moment where Gokudera looks like he wants to be really angry, but after a moment of staring each other down, Gokudera sighs, the anger melting from his shoulders.

“You fucking moron,” he finally says, but there’s not bite behind the words in his tone of voice. There’s even a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips now. “You’re not supposed to be the clumsy one.”

Yamamoto’s grin turns feral. “And you should know this by now, Hayato.”

The look on Gokudera’s face after he says that is priceless – his face turns a bright shade of red that reaches his ears, and he quickly turns to look away. “Fuck you.”

Ohh, but this is too much fun. “No, that’s usually your job.”

Gokudera’s face turns a brighter shade of red – if that’s even possible – and he suddenly stands right in front of Yamamoto, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming his back up against the wall.

“Shut the fuck up,” Gokudera hisses, their faces only inches away at this point. There’s almost genuine anger there, but the glint in Gokudera’s green eyes give him away.

“Or else…?” Yamamoto says innocently.

And it’s Gokudera’s turn to grin; it makes the blood in Yamamoto’s veins burn, his heart thudding in his ears. There’s hardly another word before Gokudera’s warm, soft lips are pressed against his, stealing his breath straight from his mouth. Yamamoto’s knees go weak – Gokudera knows just when and how to use his teeth and tongue to drag him down.

Yamamoto doesn’t dare remind him that they’ve left the dancing music on in the background.

… Not that they’ll be needing it now.

… Maybe it would be best to have Gokudera dance at the party, after all.

--

Yamamoto doesn’t see Gokudera for another week after. An e-mail message on his mobile informs him – in short, simple language – that Gokudera is out on a mission, and not to worry, idiot. Yamamoto can’t help but grin at the last part, because it’s just like Gokudera to show affection by trying his damndest not to. When Gokudera sends him another e-mail saying that he’ll catch up to them in Italy, then Yamamoto begins to worry, but can’t do much about it – there’s too much to get done.

Three days before the party, Yamamoto is pacing the front hallway of the main Italian Vongola estate when Gokudera comes limping back from his mission – and Yamamoto can’t help but glare at him the moment he slams open the door, letting a burst of crisp, snow-laden wind blow through with him. He looks tired, cold – it’s snowing outside – and in pain, but triumphant.

“You’re late,” Yamamoto says with a sharp stare as Gokudera shuts the door behind him.

“Yeah?” Gokudera snarls in reply, whirling around so that he’s nearly toe-to-toe with the taller baseball player. Yamamoto has a hard time ignoring the familiar scent of gunpowder, faint cigarette smoke, and Italian cologne that brings to mind everything Gokudera is, and the anger he initially felt fades into something more akin to worry. “I was doing my job, so fuck you.”

“But you’re hurt,” Yamamoto says, hand moving out to fumble with the front of Gokudera’s jacket.

“It’s just a bruised knee, idiot.” Gokudera brushes his hands away, grumbling. He missteps, stumbles, and hisses, and that’s when Yamamoto steps in and offers a supporting arm. Gokudera glares up at him, but then sighs. “Fine, fine. If it makes you feel better, I’ll have it checked out.”

“Good,” Yamamoto says simply, scanning Gokudera carefully to make sure nothing else is hurting the Storm Guardian, and taking a deep breath as he realizes that the knee is Gokudera’s only injury.

His grip tightens on Gokudera’s sleeve, and Gokudera gives him a questioning look. “What?”

“I was just…” He pauses.

“If you’re going to say worried,” Gokudera snaps, cutting him off, “you shouldn’t have been. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“But what if–”

Gokudera’s hands land on his shoulders, turning him so that they’re facing each other.

“Takeshi.” It’s spoken so gently, that Yamamoto blinks before he realizes that his name did just come from Gokudera’s lips, which are gently smiling. “You should know by now that the Vongola’s Storm Guardian is damned near indestructible.”

There’s a warmth in the words that seeps through to Yamamoto’s bones, down to his toes, sending goosebumps up his spine. Of course; he should have remembered – Gokudera is impossibly strong, and even more impossibly stubborn. He smiles in spite of himself, and grabs Gokudera into a tight embrace – Gokudera grunts in surprise at first – with his nose buried in Gokudera’s soft (cold) hair, taking deep draughts of Gokudera’s familiar scents.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers in Gokudera’s hair.

“Me too, you damn idiot.”

--

At the party, Gokudera manages to weasel his way out of a wheelchair and into crutches instead. The doctor had been pretty angry that the “jackass” had continued walking on the bad sprain in his knee; Yamamoto is surprised that the doctor hadn’t ordered bed rest just to make sure Gokudera didn’t go out and do something stupid again. Yamamoto has to admit he is slightly disappointed that he isn’t going to be able to dance with Gokudera at the party; he has been practicing the entire time Gokudera was gone.

Amidst the crowds of Vongola and the other famiglia’s members, however, Yamamoto finds that there isn’t much time to dwell on Gokudera – who still has the daunting task of playing translator between Tsuna and the other family’s boss. Yamamoto spends much of his time trying to just be pleasantly social with those around him, especially with his limited Italian (Gokudera taught him well, but there’s only so much he can learn in a matter of weeks).

When it comes time to dance, Yamamoto nearly panics at first – he hasn’t actually danced with anyone since his last… lesson with Gokudera. But the practice pays off; he doesn’t stomp on any poor ladies’ toes, nor does he make a fool of himself as he prances across the floor, twirling about with the other family’s women.

He notices that Gokudera is watching him with an unreadable expression halfway through the final dance, and it sends a cold shiver down his spine. Is he doing well? Did he mess up somewhere? What if Gokudera is actually… jealous?

Haha, like Gokudera gets jealous anyway.

After he bows and takes his leave of his last partner, he seeks out Gokudera – and finds him outside on the balcony, leaning over the railing with a cigarette dangling from his lips, crutches leaning off to the side as if forgotten. It’s freezing cold, but Gokudera doesn’t seem to mind the weather in just his nice suit jacket.

“You danced well,” Gokudera says, not turning around as he blows a puff of smoke out of his nostrils. Another puff of smoke, and then Gokudera turns around to face him with that same unreadable stare. “You’ve been practicing.”

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t an accusation, either. “Haha, is it that obvious?” he replies, rubbing a hand along the back of his head.

“No; I just happen to know how bad you were before I left,” Gokudera replies, flicking ashes to the ground and smirking. “Not bad, for an idiot.”

Yamamoto knows it’s as good of a compliment as he’ll get at the moment, and his grin broadens. He takes another step towards Gokudera. “Not as well as you would have done, though.”

Gokudera snorts, glaring over at his crutches. “Probably not,” he says, and takes another drag. His voice drops another few decibels as he adds, “But we can always test out this theory, Takeshi.”

Yamamoto shivers when Gokudera says his name – it isn’t the weather – and walks forward until he stands directly in front of Gokudera. With a smooth flick, the cigarette perched between Gokudera’s long fingers drops to the ground, snuffed out by the cold wind. Awkwardly shuffling himself more upright, Gokudera’s eyes are almost level with Yamamoto’s by the time he’s done; there’s an almost animalistic look in Gokudera’s green eyes that makes Yamamoto’s stomach churn.

“I don’t know how you pulled it off, you moron,” Gokudera says, the last of the cigarette on his breath puffing in a small white cloud between them, “but you really looked great out there tonight.” He lifts his hands to press his palms against Yamamoto’s cheeks, but they’re so cold that Yamamoto nearly flinches at the contact.

“Aren’t you cold?” Yamamoto suddenly blurts, grabbing Gokudera’s hands in his gloved ones. “Your hands are like ice!”

The mood momentarily broken, Gokudera glares at him and gets ready to take an angry swipe at his crutches, and Yamamoto almost feels guilty. First pressing the ice-cold palm of one of Gokudera’s hands to his lips, he then draws Gokudera’s shoulders into his arms – careful of Gokudera’s precarious balance on his sprained knee without his crutches.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll try to stop worrying so much.” He takes a deep breath and smiles impishly into Gokudera’s frosty hair. “You still owe me another dancing lesson, you know.”
Gokudera’s shoulders lose their tension again, and he seems to sink into Yamamoto’s arms even further.

“Idiot,” is all Gokudera says, but the warmth behind it holds a promise of things to come later, and that kind of warmth beat out any of the cold the wind could throw at them.

end.

--

... I go hide now. Or, rather, get ready for the work shift I don't want to do because I STILL HAVE NO VOICE lol. Crap. 8D;; /hides at work

fanfiction || Two Knights Endgame [KHR], 1/1 (one-shot)

2008-11-18T07:13:56Z

// ♪ rock you like a hurricane mix, track three (@ 30_ballads)

Title: 03 – Two Knights Endgame ~~AKA FIC THAT I HATE~~
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: R (barely) – violence, language, OOC ohgod /sob.
Genre: Pure, unadulterated hurt/comfort. Not-gen. (Not romance, really, but definitely not gen.)
Characters: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera, with Yamamoto Takeshi ~~implied 8059~~
Timeline: TYL-ish. Give or take; they’re all a bit older (and wiser, but not in all cases).
Beta: none? 8);;
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

→ all 30_ballads installments

Head's up - this one is LONG, as in it almost hit the 10k word mark. I had to cut it short. Dx

ALSO. UM. Please to be exercising suspension of medical beliefs here. I know how unlikely some of the medical situations presented here are. BUT this is a shounen manga, and I am asking that for this fic, please believe the somewhat unbelievable? 8DD;;

It was a dream and then hit me, reality struck
And now my life is all shifty and it all moves fast
Close to a buck 50 and we all stand strong
In respect to the family in times of insanity
And through words of profanity
I describe our dysfunctional family
Blood Brothers keep it real to the end
Deeper than the thoughts you think, not a trend.
--from Papa Roach's Blood Brothers

« two knights endgame »

Yamamoto stands at the entrance to Tsuna’s hospital room, a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in each hand, and for a moment, he just watches the constant profile of the one person who has refused to leave Tsuna’s side. Gokudera stares down at the bed, and probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing so as the beep beep beep of the heart monitor punctuates the choking silence. It isn’t hard to imagine that Gokudera’s trying to take responsibility for the problem at hand, that he’s stuck in the should-have, could-have, but didn’t-do-it-right cycle. Yamamoto clears his throat and prepares a weak smile as he shuts the door behind him. Gokudera’s eyes are now on him, and– yes, he was stuck in that cycle of thinking. Now, he just looks worn and exhausted and frustrated.

“Coffee?” He offers one to Gokudera, who all but snatches it out of his hand.

It’s nothing personal, really – Yamamoto just lets his smile grow instead of taking offense. He watches, trying not to let the smile slip as he watches Gokudera toss back the coffee in one sip like it’s water – it was pretty hot; he hopes it didn’t burn Gokudera’s throat – and tosses the cup into the wastebasket next to the occupied bed.

“You know,” Yamamoto says, after a breath – “sleep would work better.”

Gokudera glares at him, but there isn’t much fight behind it. “Fuck off,” he snarls, and that too falls somewhat flat; there are dark-ringed bags under his eyes. He looks away, focusing back down at the sleeping face of their boss.

The unspoken message is clear: Not moving until the Tenth wakes up. Put in more vulgar language than that, Yamamoto muses – this time, the smirk’s genuine – but the same message, nonetheless. And it’s not like Gokudera seems too pleased with him anyway, so…

“The doctors say he’s stabilizing, and should be coming around pretty soon.”

Gokudera’s shoulders tense, and there’s a slip of the frowning mask he tries so desperately to keep firmly plastered to his face – the glimmer of hope doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yeah? Well, then looks like I won’t have to wait too long.”

Yamamoto laughs. “I guess not, then.” And he sits down in the seat on the other side of the bed.

Ah, and there’s the look – the what the hell do you think you’re doing one that Gokudera loves to use so often on him. Yamamoto ignores it, and looks over at Tsuna, his own mind going through what happened. They still don’t know who was behind the car bomb that almost claimed their boss, but once they do find out, Yamamoto doesn’t doubt there will be swift retribution. This isn’t the first attempt on Tsuna’s life in recent days, though it’s the closest their unknown enemies have come to succeeding thus far. It’s a bit worrisome, because Yamamoto can think of at least four or five different famiglia who might want to end Tsuna’s life – and two of those are Vongola allies.

This won’t be the last attempt, either. Yamamoto isn’t so foolish as to ignore the fact that the near-success of this particular attack will only bring more dangerous situations ahead. He will never admit it to anyone else, but he worries a great deal about the day when the strength of the Guardians won’t make a difference, when the bullet will slip through their tight defenses and find its way to the heart of the Vongola.

“Don’t let your brain explode,” Gokudera’s voice suddenly says. Yamamoto blinks across the bed at him, confused for a moment before the Storm Guardian adds, “Might cause an aneurysm, thinking.”

Yamamoto blinks again, and then suddenly laughs – a joke from Gokudera is rare enough. Shame, because sometimes the guy doesn’t know how hilarious he can be. Gokudera scowls more and crosses his arms with a frustrated growl.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Yamamoto replies. “It’s just… nothing.”

It’s another day until Tsuna wakes up enough to speak lucidly. It’s a relief to everyone, and most especially, Gokudera – Yamamoto expects him to collapse at any time now that the urgent, uncertain worry is no longer there to keep his friend on his feet. But before Yamamoto can coax Gokudera back to the Vongola estate to get some rest, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he curses as he realizes he’s forgotten to turn it off. He quickly excuses himself to go down the hall to the cell phone area in the hospital before he calls back the number on the screen.

‘Yamamoto – thank God. I thought I was going to have to send someone over there.’

“… Kusakabe?” Yamamoto blinks. This is rather unexpected.

‘There’s no time for chit-chat. Look, I have one piece of advice for you – keep the Nori family out of the area. They’re the ones who are trying to kill Tsuna.’

Yamamoto’s throat clenches, the smile completely gone. “Wait, what? Why would the Nori family–”

‘Working on it. Hey, I can’t talk long, but Kyo-san’s counting on you while he’s out of the area. Be sure you keep a close eye on the Tenth.’

“Kusakabe, what the hell do you mean that– ” The line goes dead, and Yamamoto curses as he snaps his cell shut. He isn’t sure what draws his attention to the entrance of the room, but he looks up and sees Gokudera standing there, fists clenching at his sides.

He doesn’t have to ask how much Gokudera heard. The Storm Guardian turns on his heels, but Yamamoto already is across the room, fist bunching in the sleeve of Gokudera’s dress shirt. In that one glare, the one that dares Yamamoto to try and stop him – Yamamoto already knows what’s going to happen next, and he knows even more intimately that he can’t stop it. He sighs.

There are no smiles, just, “Get some rest first – I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t stop me from going now,” Gokudera snaps, “and I don’t need your goddamned help.”

It doesn’t happen often, but Yamamoto feels his face falling into a serious expression, and he can’t seem to stop it. “You’re not going to turn this into a suicide mission – not on my watch, and not while the Tenth is still alive and breathing.”

Gokudera’s teeth are clenching as though he’s going to spit out denials, but Yamamoto can see that he’s seriously weighing it. The resistance drains out of him – this is when Yamamoto knows the decision has been made.

“Just don’t get in my way,” Gokudera mutters.

Yamamoto just smiles, though there’s no joy behind it – there’s never been joy in taking lives.

The smile fades as they wade into the thick of a battlefield, a day later – as promised – wrapped in Kevlar and the Sistema C.A.I. shields, loaded to the teeth with munitions and box weapons. The air fills with thick smoke from Gokudera’s explosives and the punctuated staccato of bullets. It’s two against an entire famiglia, but they have experience with both box weapons and gunfights on their side; they cut through the traitor famiglia’s members, parting their defenses in a sea of red and black as they make their way to the top of the chain of command. Pressing forward, never stopping, never looking back; Gokudera takes the front line out with dynamite and blocks incoming attacks with his Sistema C.A.I., and the blade of Yamamoto’s sword finds the stragglers.

Yamamoto worries when he catches a glimpse of Gokudera’s face – it’s almost terrifying, to see him so deadly-calm, to see the way he walks as a man with one goal, heedless of the danger around him. Of course they have a goal at the end, but Yamamoto isn’t sure Gokudera has added “coming out alive” to the mission parameters, despite the presence of Gokudera’s Sistema C.A.I. – it isn’t bullet-proof, for one. He hopes they can finish up their work here quickly so that they can get out before Gokudera does something incredibly stupid in his anger.

They’re ascending the staircase to the upper level of the Nori famiglia boss’ local estate, and Gokudera simply pulls out a gun and shoots – once, twice, and two more enemy Mafioso are down – as he doesn’t miss a step on his way down the hall. There’s no stopping him at this point; all Yamamoto can do is to ensure that they both come out of here in one piece.

Gokudera shoots one of the oncoming attackers in the leg, and Yamamoto winces as he knows what’s going to come next. Gokudera calmly grabs his new victim by the collar of his shirt, bringing the shrieking man so close that they’re nearly face-to-face now.

“Where the fuck is your boss?” Gokudera hisses; Yamamoto can barely hear him over the roar of fire surrounding them. “I need to have a little… chat with him.”

The man’s lips are trembling, but drawn into a tight, resolved line. “I-I’m not s-saying anything… t-to you Vongola dogs.”

There’s a flash of silver, the only warning before the small bang of an equally small firearm goes off almost point-blank. Yamamoto cries out in alarm and reaches for Gokudera, only to realize that the man he’s now holding is dead, and there is no sign of injury on the Storm Guardian. The neutral, cold, fucking terrifying expression on Gokudera’s face is all that’s left.

Neither says a word; Yamamoto simply swallows around a hard lump in his throat, and follows Gokudera as he continues down the hall. A small ambush around the corner doesn’t stop them, either – rapid fire from Gokudera’s skull weapon takes them down even before Yamamoto even gets there. The Nori family should have known of Gokudera’s growing reputation better; there aren’t many that can stand in the way of Vongola’s fearsome right-hand man and his notorious vengeful sense of justice.

Gokudera, in such a state, is nigh unstoppable.

An ornate door bars the end of this hallway, both guards already gunned down by Gokudera’s vicious onslaught. Yamamoto can barely suppress a sigh of relief that they’re finally almost at their goal. There are no more obstacles as they both march forward.

Gokudera kicks the door in without much preamble, and finds a sniveling man in a suit at an all-too-tidy desk. The man is quaking in his boots, but there’s a glint in his eyes as he meets their glares that tells Yamamoto he’s dangerously determined. The one thing that stands out to Yamamoto about the scene before them is that it’s off, somehow. He isn’t sure how; he just knows that all isn’t right here.

Gokudera clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You’re not Nori’s boss,” he says, taking several steps closer to the man. “Where is he? I’d like to have a word with him.”

The man shrieks as Gokudera takes another step in his direction. “S-Stay away!” There’s a gun pointed in Gokudera’s direction, but it’s held in shaking hands, and Yamamoto doesn’t think the man really can aim well. Regardless, he prepares himself just in case things go awry.

Gokudera ignores him, moves in, and kicks the gun away. He grabs this man by the collar, and points the skull’s mouth at his head with a threatening click-whirr-hum as the skull charges with his spirit energy. The man screams as Gokudera shoots a warning bolt through his thigh.

“I’m only going to ask you this one more time,” he growls, his voice so cold that it sends chills down Yamamoto’s spine. “Where is your fucking coward of a boss?”

“I-Italy! He’s in Italy! For god’s sake, spare me, please!” the man squeals, trembling and cowering with his hands over his head. “I’m just the adjunct!”

Gokudera snorts and rocks back on his heels, a look of dark amusement crossing his face. “And you’re their right-hand man,” he mutters to himself, it seems. Yamamoto can see a thousand thoughts crossing Gokudera’s mind, and he doesn’t like a single one of them. “Jesus, how the fuck did you get to the Tenth, at your current strength?”

The words make Yamamoto flinch – Gokudera’s back to blaming himself, and this mood he’s in is completely dangerous. The warning sirens in the back of Yamamoto’s mind are screaming at him to grab Gokudera and get the hell out, because Gokudera isn’t in the right state of mind to figure out that something is awfully wrong here.

The man’s frightened face suddenly shifts to something more deadly, and there’s a smirk there on still slightly-trembling lips. There’s a small bout of movement, and Gokudera realizes at the same time as Yamamoto that the gun wasn’t this man’s only weapon.

Several things happen all at once.

With widened eyes, Gokudera suddenly jumps toward Yamamoto in an effort to get them both out the door, in any way possible.

“Fuck you, Vongola!” the man shrieks.

There’s a click, a flash of bright light, a hot rush of air driving Gokudera’s momentum so that he slams into Yamamoto, their eyes meeting in a brief moment of panic as flame bursts out from the room.

He loses Gokudera’s grip once they clear the door – he reaches out again and misses, tossed back by an invisible force, and there’s an ear-popping roar just before something solid connects with his head and it’s lights out.

Yamamoto wakes to violent coughing overriding the ringing in his ears, and with the burning in his chest, he realizes that the coughing is his own. It takes him a few moments of disoriented, confused blinking before he understands what he’s looking at through the cloud of dust. There’s half-burnt wallpaper lining the walls, blackened and broken ceiling above. His head is throbbing in sharp contrast to his heartbeat, and it takes him another moment to remember.

Enemy territory. Explosion. … Gokudera–!

He sits up, almost too fast – his head still throbs like hell, but he’ll live, and he doesn’t think he’s injured other than a handful of scrapes and bruises. Frantically looking around, Yamamoto locates several bodies strewn about the hallway, but only one of them has a mop of silver hair. In a panic, he rushes to his friend’s side, and he could swear later that his heart stops when he notices that Gokudera isn’t only unconscious, but he isn’t moving. At all.

The panic almost overrides common sense, but Yamamoto has been through enough battles now to keep a calm head in a tough situation. Check ABC’s, he recalls – airway, breathing, circulation. He’s got his cell phone out as he places an ear to Gokudera’s chest, and doesn’t hear anything. Two fingers against Gokudera’s neck, and there’s nothing there. Yamamoto tries desperately not to lose that hard-won calm as he watches Gokudera’s chest for any signs of breathing, and–

No, no, nononono – this isn’t happening!

–Gokudera isn’t. Yamamoto’s blood runs cold.

He whips open his cell phone and dials for Vongola’s emergency medical team, because they’ll be the first to arrive in this situation anyway.

Location. Injured parties. Not breathing, no heartbeat. Give CPR – yes, he knows how. Don’t move the injured party. Bleeding? … Can’t tell around the Kevlar. No, there’s nobody else. Four minutes, got it.

He tries to listen and respond as well as he can, as his numbed fingers pull the front of Gokudera’s dress shirt open, ignoring the buttons that hit his face as they pop off the fabric. There are several metal splotches on the Kevlar, wordless stories of things that could have been had Gokudera come alone. It’s hard not to suck in a breath of sympathy at how many of them there are – those will bruise, badly; Yamamoto is surprised that Gokudera didn’t even flinch, and then realizes that he shouldn’t be. This is Gokudera he’s thinking about here.

Removal of the Kevlar is harder than he thought it would be without moving Gokudera too much. There are mottled bruises and bright red welts already forming on his friend’s chest, and he’s worried that he’s only going to add to the injuries with CPR. But he doesn’t have a choice; Gokudera still isn’t breathing, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s drawn a breath. Tilting Gokudera’s chin upwards to open his airway, he leans in close just to make sure he isn’t mistaken.

No breath tickles his ear.

Taking a deep breath of his own, he straddles Gokudera’s hips and places his hands on Gokudera’s sternum. Pressing down hard and fast – 15 times, 10 seconds; he counts them out aloud – he ignores the discomfort in his wrists. He leans over and pinches Gokudera’s nose shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to Gokudera’s and breathes two full breaths into his mouth. Gokudera’s chest rises with each breath – good. Repeat.

The second round of chest compressions, he feels something give in Gokudera’s chest and hears the faint snap, and he winces. Can’t be helped; there’s still no breathing or heartbeat.

The eighth time he breathes for Gokudera, Yamamoto realizes that the Italian’s lips are soft, warm – not that he should be noticing these things, but it does come to mind. There’s a lot of muscle in Gokudera’s chest, too; he didn’t realize just how much there was until he found himself trying to press life back into Gokudera’s heart through the layers of muscle. His shoulders are starting to ache from the exertion.

Come on, Gokudera – don’t give up on me!

He loses count after twenty-three. Gokudera still isn’t responding, and he feels a growing knot of panic in the pit of his stomach that he’s been trying to ignore. Instead, he forces himself to focus on anything but the fact that his friend still isn’t breathing – the way Gokudera’s hair spreads out behind his head like a halo, how peaceful Gokudera looks, how soft his lips are and how warm they might be if Gokudera was awake–

His mind stops there. He can’t let himself lose focus that way; it’s just inappropriate, the timing is all wrong, and it’s not like he even has feelings like that–

You’re a dirty liar, a vindictive voice says in the back of his mind, but he ignores it.

There are bruises across Gokudera’s abdomen, Yamamoto finally notices. They look ugly and serious, and it sends another jolt of fear through Yamamoto’s gut. But he’s too afraid that if he stops giving CPR now, Gokudera’s life will be in even more danger, so he doesn’t check the time to see how long it’s been since he’s called emergency services. Damn it, hasn’t it been at least four minutes? He’s starting to feel tired, his arms and wrists and shoulders and back aching with the strain. It seems like a goddamn lifetime.

“Don’t you dare… give up on me… Gokudera Hayato!” he snarls, panting, a pause between each chest compression. “I won’t… let you!”

In the middle of a second breath, Gokudera suddenly begins heaving; Yamamoto immediately pulls away and rolls Gokudera on his side, rubbing his friend’s back carefully as he vomits. He notices between pained heaves that Gokudera is breathing, thank God, thankgodthankyouthankyou, but isn’t yet conscious–

The vomit is tinged pink. Gokudera is far from out of danger yet. Yamamoto puts his fingers to Gokudera’s throat to check for a pulse, and finds it – thready, weak, too fast, but finally there. Once Gokudera’s done heaving, he pulls off his jacket and wipes Gokudera’s mouth with the sleeve of it as he rolls his friend on his back again. Gokudera still breathes, but irregularly with some difficulty. This time, Yamamoto begins taking stock of the injuries – aside from the heavy bruising all over Gokudera’s chest and abdomen, there’s a nasty slash across Gokudera’s hip that Yamamoto hadn’t noticed before. Blood from the wound has already soaked through the knee of Yamamoto’s pants. Hissing in frustration, he tears the sleeve off his jacket – Gokudera will be pissed; these weren’t cheap suits – and folds it up, pressing it against the tear in Gokudera’s pants above the wound.

He puts the back of one hand on the side of Gokudera’s face, and the skin is cold to the touch. Another frustrated hiss, and he strips his jacket off and drapes it over the still-unconscious Italian. Gokudera moans softly, face contorting in a wince – Yamamoto tries hard not to sigh in relief at the sign of responsiveness, because there’s no way he can be relieved when Gokudera’s injuries could be even worse than he’s imagining them to be.

Goddamn it, where is that emergency team?

He picks up his phone to call them back again when he hears shouts from a short distance away. Grabbing for the gun he has stashed in his belt, he readies it just in case this isn’t the emergency team he’s hearing right now.

There’s a rumbling overhead, and a little more debris comes tumbling from the ceiling in small puffs of dust clouds. A sick feeling curdles in Yamamoto’s gut; he worries that the structure itself might not be sound, but he’s afraid to move Gokudera at this point. Another shudder, more dust, and Yamamoto calls out loudly for help. A larger chunk of debris rains down on the ground near them, and Yamamoto knows that neither one of them will get out alive if he doesn’t get them both the hell out of here now.

“Yamamoto!! I was worried about you guys to the extreme!!”

Leading the medical team is Ryohei, thank God, and Yamamoto finally allows himself some measure of relief. Another rumble from above, though, has him concerned that they don’t have time. Medics swarm around Yamamoto and Gokudera, pushing Yamamoto aside as they begin to work on his friend. Several questions are directed in Yamamoto’s direction, and he answers them numbly. Breathing restarted by CPR. Still unresponsive. Vomit – pink. Don’t know how long he was unconscious before starting CPR. He doesn’t like the looks on the medics’ faces as they assess Gokudera’s condition. The words they’re saying are doing nothing for the relief he feels that Gokudera is at least breathing; it’s making his stomach tie in worried knots, and he’s starting to feel vaguely ill.

My power wasn’t enough, was it.

Another shudder goes through the building, and several workers glance up with concern.

“I don’t think the building’s going to hold,” Yamamoto half-heartedly comments, finding breath harder to come by than it should be. He may be athletic, but even he is winded after forcing Gokudera’s body to keep working. “We need to get out of here.”

They’re loading Gokudera onto a stretcher as he says it, and it looks like they’re all about ready to get the hell out of there. Ryohei, for once, doesn’t say a word as he pulls Yamamoto to his feet and they follow the medics on the way out. Five steps out of the building, and it begins to fall to pieces behind them – Ryohei has to drag Yamamoto to keep him from getting hit by nearby debris.

After that, the ambulance ride is a blur. Yamamoto chooses not to listen as the medics talk about Gokudera’s injuries – too calm, too clinical and cold – because it’s just easier to let himself drift. One of the medics finally squats down in front of him with a worried frown, and he realizes then that he’s got blood dribbling down his face from an injury in his scalp. He lets the medic tend to it without a word.

An emergency blanket drifts across his shoulders, followed by a thick, broad hand – Ryohei, again, this time looking concerned.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Yamamoto replies flatly.

“You’re not the type to brood.”

Yamamoto snorts; he’s definitely not brooding.

… Liar.

“And you’re not the type to be so subdued,” Yamamoto returns.

Ryohei smiles mirthlessly, because this isn’t a time to get fired up – Gokudera’s life is still in danger, and it’s making them both feel morose and frustrated, because there’s nothing either one of them can do about it. And that’s what makes Yamamoto so angry – he could have stopped Gokudera from going (no, no you couldn’t have), he could have taken more precautions (you got him to wear the Kevlar, at the very least), he could have made sure he’d taken the brunt of the blast instead of Gokudera (but then their positions would just be reversed, and Gokudera doesn’t need more reason to feel guilt right now), he could have killed that goddamned Nori bastard before he had a chance to detonate the explosives he’d wired the room with (how the fuck could he have foreseen that?), he could have–

“You’re thinking extremely hard,” Ryohei comments dryly. “That’s not good for your brain, you know.”

Yamamoto pulls the emergency blanket tighter around himself – that’s exactly what Gokudera had said, back in Tsuna’s hospital room. The words make him feel even more ill, and he glances past Ryohei over at Gokudera’s face, which is now half-covered with a breathing mask. A medic has one of Gokudera’s arms stretched out to the side, and is coating his upper ribs with iodine. They’re going to run a chest tube, Yamamoto realizes.

His eyes are stinging, but damn it, not going to cry.

“It’s okay,” Ryohei says, almost gently. “It’s going to be okay.”

Yamamoto wants to badly to believe him, but can’t seem to let himself relax. The medic examining his forehead gives him a pitying glance, before offering him a round of painkillers for the headache. Yamamoto takes them, without another word. Several minutes pass, and Yamamoto suddenly feels extremely woozy.

The last thought before he succumbs to the pleasant haze of drug-induced half-consciousness is, goddamn you, Ryohei – you let them sedate me.

Yamamoto wakes to a sterile white room, a fierce headache, and the sound of hushed, whispering voices. He’s curled on his side and it registers belatedly that he’s staring at a dividing curtain. If he looks closely enough, he can barely make out the shadows of a bed and the person in it, and a couple other figures standing over it. The crook of his elbow itches slightly, and he looks down to find the end of an IV line stuck into his skin there.

It takes several moments for him to process why he would be in the hospital. Tsuna was the one injured, right? But then he remembers the surprise, anger, betrayal, and the subsequent quest for vengeance on which he followed Gokudera. Gun-fighting. Box weapons, explosions, a headache, Gokudera not breathing, not breathing–

Gokudera-kun?, spoken in an urgent whisper on the other side of the curtain, breaks through his thoughts like a slap across his face. He strains his ears, trying to listen to what’s being said, because damn it, this is important.

Not doing well, he – Yamamoto can’t hear all of the softly-spoken words – blood… out of surgery, will… still in ICU? … anything… be done?

Then he realized he recognized the voice asking the questions – Tsuna. He was in the same room now, but why was he in a hospital bed himself? Almost as if in reminder, his head throbbed, and he vaguely recalled that he’d taken a blow to the head as well. Maybe he’d suffered a mild concussion, or they’re just trying to make him sleep more.

Yanking the IV line out of his elbow – which, as an afterthought, probably isn’t the best idea because it stings to hell – Yamamoto stands up and throws the curtain aside to see Tsuna propped up in bed, looking much better (except for the worry lines) and Ryohei speaking with him.

“Yamamoto!” Tsuna exclaims, surprise and worry and a hint of relief crossing his features all at once. “You’re awake!”

“Which room is Gokudera in?” he demands, proud that he’s kept his usual even tone.

Ryohei and Tsuna exchange worried looks. “He’s… he’s in surgery,” Tsuna hesitantly says, looking down at his hands.

Yamamoto knows immediately, as soon as the words are out of Tsuna’s mouth, and as soon as his lips clamp down again in a thin, grim line. There’s something that Tsuna isn’t telling him. It isn’t good. He’s afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer will be, but if he doesn’t find out…

“Will… will he be okay?” Yamamoto asks, almost numbly.

Tsuna bites his lip, shifts uncomfortably and looks at Ryohei. That isn’t good news, either; there’s a painful clench of fear in Yamamoto’s chest, tightening like a band around his ribs and making it hard to breathe. Why won’t they tell him what’s wrong?

“Since when can’t you tell me the truth?” Yamamoto asks, voice thick.

“Because it’s Gokudera,” Ryohei says, uncharacteristically quiet and serious.

“Huh?” Yamamoto blinks. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” But he already knows the answer to his own question; he just doesn’t want to admit it. Because he is a very precious person to you, and everyone knows it.

Tsuna gives him a disparaging look, and Yamamoto’s anger calms. It’s not their fault that Gokudera’s hurt and in surgery and not doing well and– and… Oh, God. This is all his fault, he thinks, because he let Gokudera go on his little rampage, he let Gokudera get himself in a stupid pinch, and let him be a rash idiot even with the Kevlar and the extra rest and the company. Yamamoto was nothing more than an enabler; look at where it landed Gokudera. The lump rising in his throat feels like it’s going to choke him any moment, just watch and he might let it.

He sits unceremoniously in the empty chair next to Tsuna’s hospital bed with a shuddering sigh, elbows on knees and hands folded as he buries his eyes into them.

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers, a ghost of a laugh on his lips with it. “I let him do this to himself.”

A soft, warm hand lands on his, and he looks up to see Tsuna staring back at him with a sad smile. There’s a hint of guilt in the expression, which Yamamoto chooses to ignore. This is in no way Tsuna’s fault; the Tenth has to rely on the strength of his Guardians, and as far as Yamamoto’s concerned, two of them have already failed him recently.

“This isn’t your fault, Yamamoto,” Tsuna says as if he’s reading Yamamoto’s mind, but Yamamoto doesn’t believe him. “This is something that happens because we’re Mafioso.”

Yamamoto takes a deep breath in a near-vain attempt to reel in his emotions, nods for Tsuna’s sake, and then looks up at him seriously.

“How bad is it, Tsuna? Really?” he asks.

Tsuna’s smile falters and wavers. “It’s not good,” he replies carefully, “but not hopeless. There’s a good chance he’ll be just fine once he’s stabilized. This is actually his second surgery this afternoon. The doctor said there was a lot of internal bleeding…”

Goddamn it, that isn’t his fault, is it? Did he do CPR wrong and make it worse?

“… He’ll need a transfusion, most likely, but they’re a little short on B-type blood and Ryohei and I are both A-type.” As soon as Yamamoto hears this, he shoots Tsuna a sharp look. Tsuna doesn’t seem to notice at first, and keeps talking. “Once they’ve got his vitals under control, the doctor says that he should recover well, though he’ll be very sore for a while. He’s got a lot of broken ribs and internal contusions, but–… Yamamoto?”

Yamamoto doesn’t realize he’s no longer paying attention until Tsuna says his name. “I can help,” he says, standing up, and there’s a little glimmer of shaky hope that manages to leak into his voice. “I-I have O-type blood; it should be compatible with his.”

“Yamamoto…”

“It’s the least I can do for my own failure,” Yamamoto insists, fist clenching.

Tsuna looks him seriously, straight and evenly – it’s almost intimidating, especially since Yamamoto knows Tsuna’s true strength. But he has nothing to hide, and so he returns the stare, as evenly and determinedly as he can manage. There must be something in his eyes that Tsuna sees, because there’s a split second of surprise, and then a relieved smile spreading across Tsuna’s face.

“I guess it can’t be helped, can it?” he says gently. “We’ll summon the nurse.”

Secretly, Yamamoto wishes he had been able to see Gokudera during the blood-drawing procedure. He wants confirmation that Gokudera is still alive, still breathing, and that he’ll make it. But he’s still in surgery; the donated blood goes straight to the OR, out of Yamamoto’s grasp, and directly into Gokudera’s veins. Yamamoto is left sitting in the surgery waiting room feeling weary, stretched thin, but hopeful.

Another two hours, after Tsuna convinces a nurse to let him at least sit in a wheelchair in the waiting room with Yamamoto, the surgeon finally comes out of the OR and approaches the Vongola. His scrubs are gruesomely spattered, and he looks exhausted – but triumphant.

Gokudera’s resting in the recovery room; he’s out of immediate danger, but they will need to be cautious and monitor him for a few days before they can move him out of the ICU, the doctor explains seriously. They won’t know if there’s any lasting brain damage from the period of time where he wasn’t breathing. The doctor doesn’t say – doesn’t need to say how close of a call it was. He doesn’t need to explain that Gokudera was one lucky son of a bitch. Yamamoto had overheard one of the medics say it: she had never seen anyone’s heart start beating again from CPR alone.

Gokudera is fucking indestructible. Or, so Yamamoto tries to tell himself. The ass has already survived this far, beat his odds a thousand times over. But Doubt is still a strong little devil in his chest.

They don’t let him visit Gokudera until he’s stabilized and in the ICU. There are tubes and wires everywhere; Yamamoto recognizes a chest drain and the ventilator. The heart monitor gives signs of a steady beat, and it somehow relaxes Yamamoto as he takes vigil next to Gokudera’s bed. Tsuna visits, when he can convince the nurse on duty to wheel him to the ICU, but Tsuna’s still recovering, himself.

Pleasantries are exchanged, but Yamamoto can tell Tsuna isn’t pleased by the way the boss’ lips are pursed in a thin line – angry about what, Yamamoto isn’t sure. The truth is, he doesn’t feel like talking about it, about why Tsuna might be angry (at him, Gokudera, both, the situation, whatever); Tsuna has enough insight to figure that much out. For a while, at least.

“Yamamoto, this isn’t your fault,” Tsuna says quietly; Yamamoto feels Tsuna’s eyes on him, but doesn’t return the gaze.

“I know,” he whispers, but doesn’t believe it.

Tsuna doesn’t call him out on it.

After a few hours of quiet vigilance, Tsuna’s nurse returns to take him back to his room. Yamamoto loses track of time after that as he sits and simply watches Gokudera’s chest rise and fall in time with the pressurized hisses of the ventilator. Nurses are in and out, as well as the doctor – but none of them question the right of the Rain Guardian to stay in his seat, keeping his silent vigil with the occasional reach across to brush errant silver hairs out of Gokudera’s face. Day blurs into night, and back into day – the only sign of time’s passage outside that very room is the direction the sun’s rays filter into the sterile white room. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until Tsuna comes back in and remarks on his state of appearance.

“Yamamoto… weren’t you wearing that same outfit yesterday?” Tsuna asks, hesitantly.

Yamamoto blinks in surprise; has it really been that long? Rubbing a hand behind his head, he smiles sheepishly and says, “Ah, I must have lost track of time.”

Tsuna watches him with worry, but says nothing.

The doctors wean Gokudera off the ventilator that afternoon, and are optimistic when he’s breathing well on his own. Yamamoto stays until Gokudera finally stirs the morning after, eyes clouded with pain and the haze of drugs. Looking around the room, slow realization setting in – frustration, weariness, pain, all flickering across his face.

“Hey,” Yamamoto says with a smile – genuine, relieved, pleased – when he realizes that Gokudera is lucid and aware.

Gokudera’s eyes lazily shift towards Yamamoto, and he grunts softly. “Still… alive, baseball… freak?” he says, voice hoarse and slurred.

The smile still hasn’t left Yamamoto’s face. “Yeah,” he replies. “Sorry, can’t get rid of me just yet.”

Gokudera gives a half-laugh, half-snort with a smile that quickly turns into a grimace as he tries to curl in on himself. “F-Fucking… ow.”

Yamamoto tries not to hover too much as Gokudera reigns in the pain, breathing harshly a few times before he shoots a sharp glare at Yamamoto. Like it’s Yamamoto’s fault.

And maybe it is.

“You… look like shit,” Gokudera says suddenly.

It takes all of five seconds for Yamamoto to realize that Gokudera isn’t glaring at him for being there, but for how haggard he’s sure he looks. He brings out the sheepish smile again, rubbing the back of his head almost absently.

“Do I?” he asks with a laugh – hollow.

“You idiot,” Gokudera says, closing his eyes. “I don’t… need a fucking babysitter. Go… get some goddamned… sleep.”

It is clear that Gokudera’s having trouble staying awake, so Yamamoto smiles and nods, waiting for him to finally drift off. When he does, Yamamoto allows himself a deep breath of relief and a small smile. Something stings his eyes, but he refuses to acknowledge it. There are far too many thoughts swarming in his mind, of what could have been, what still might be, what he would have done had things turned out much differently. What if he had been the one to be in the hospital bed instead? What if Gokudera had died – there or at the hospital? What if they had never received that call from Kusakabe regarding the Nori family? He didn’t think he cared that much, but now… now…

They’ve been through far too much together, he realizes. Far too many trials, challenges, and they’ve survived every last test thrown in their faces. This is a whole different kind of game they’re playing now, and the stakes are far higher than Yamamoto would ever like to admit they are.

He takes a hold of Gokudera’s hand, tensing slightly when Gokudera shifts but doesn’t wake, and presses it to his forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for surviving.”

“The fuck do you mean I can’t check myself out?!”

The shout comes from down the hallway, and it makes Yamamoto blink – though he knows he shouldn’t be surprised. Gokudera has been threatening to walk on out of the hospital for days now, but has never quite managed to make it further than down the hall before he passes out.

A calm, but firm feminine voice answers him, but Yamamoto can’t hear the words being said from where he stands. He resists the urge to sigh and rub his forehead, and instead goes to rescue the poor nurse who’s being subjected to Gokudera’s regular arguments with the Vongola-run hospital’s authorities.

“What the hell ever happened to patient autonomy?” Gokudera growls. “You can’t stop me from yanking out this god-forsaken IV and walking out this door right now!”

Yamamoto arrives just as Gokudera half-storms, half-limps towards the door, the nurse behind him sputtering and trying to figure out how to convince her stubborn patient to stay in bed. And a second look at Gokudera confirmed the nurse’s fears in Yamamoto’s mind – though the Storm Guardian has markedly improved over the last several days, he still looks haggard and in pain, and Yamamoto doesn’t miss how harsh his breathing is at the small exertion.

In that split second, Yamamoto makes a quick decision, and braces for the argument he knows is about to break out. He takes a step sideways, maneuvering so that his broad shoulders take up most of the space in the doorway. Gokudera doesn’t even notice him until he’s only steps away, and when he does, the scowl that scrunches up his face looks more like a tight grimace of pain. It makes Yamamoto feel even more firm in his resolve.

“Get out of my way, baseball freak,” Gokudera says venomously, shoving against Yamamoto feebly once he’s close enough to do so.

Yamamoto says nothing, but doesn’t budge, keeping his expression cold and firm. Can’t let it slip, even though he hates how little strength Gokudera has in the gesture. There’s an irritated grunt coming from Gokudera as he shoves again, and then follows the furious glare – the one that says, my pride is at stake here, you bastard. It’s hard not to budge and just let him go his way, but Yamamoto knows – goddamn it, he knows that Gokudera could use another few days in the hospital.

Keeping his voice even – barely – he says, “If you don’t have the strength to push me out of your way, you don’t have the strength to be out of bed.”

There’s a few beats in which Yamamoto isn’t entirely sure that Gokudera won’t try to cause him some serious harm, but a small wobble and a grimace of pain is all the warning Yamamoto has before Gokudera’s knees buckle out from under him. Yamamoto’s eyes widen, and he reaches to catch him without thinking; he barely manages to stop Gokudera from falling face-first onto the hard tile floor of the hospital room. There’s a tension in Gokudera’s shoulders that isn’t entirely from pain, and he scowls as he tries to push Yamamoto away.

“Let go, damn it,” he snarls.

“Not until you can stand on your own,” Yamamoto replies evenly, almost angrily. There must be enough anger bleeding into his voice, because Gokudera doesn’t say another word.

He ignores Gokudera’s frustrated hisses as he pulls them both upright, one of Gokudera’s arms over his shoulder. He’s mindful of Gokudera’s broken ribs as he leads back over to the hospital bed. The nurse shoots him a relieved glance and nods over Gokudera’s head. By the time they maneuver Gokudera back on to the bed, he’s breathing harshly and there’s sweat beading on his forehead, eyes tightly shut as he tries to ride out the pain.

Part of Yamamoto wants to reach out and hold his hand, try to offer moral support through it, but he’s so irritated at Gokudera’s stubborn insistence on getting himself in bigger trouble that he can’t seem to let himself offer a hand. It’s now that Yamamoto truly feels anger, because this is just so asinine on Gokudera’s part that he wants to shake the man.

“Why the fuck do you insist on being this way?” he snaps. Gokudera’s eyes crack open, and he manages to look surprised, even around the pain. “If you would just stay put, you wouldn’t have to put up with this much pain, and you’d heal a hell of a lot faster.”

“B-But the Tenth needs–”

“Bullshit.” Yamamoto leans in closer. “You are no good to him in your current condition – how the hell do you expect to protect him if you can barely move on your own?”

A number of emotions flicker across Gokudera’s face – anger, frustration, and then he suddenly seems absolutely miserable.

“I’m not useless,” Gokudera whispers, and it sends a shock of guilt through Yamamoto’s gut that immediately quells the ire.

“No,” Yamamoto says with a sigh that relaxes his shoulders. “No, you’re not useless. Just temporarily out of commission.”

The comment does seem to help – Gokudera looks a little less upset, but only a little. Yamamoto slumps in the chair next to the bed, suddenly feeling bone-deep weary. He stares up at the ceiling in silence, simply listening to Gokudera’s breathing beginning to even out, and to the nurse as she bustles about re-attaching IVs and machine sensors and tucking her patient back into bed, tongue clicking every so often in disapproval. She leaves once she’s satisfied, and then it’s truly quiet in the room.

“Why are you still here?” Gokudera asks suddenly, breaking the silence. “The Tenth is still here, isn’t he? Why aren’t you with him?”

“Ryohei’s still with Tsuna,” he replies, “and Tsuna checked out of the hospital yesterday, and is resting back in his quarters at the other end of the base. It’s not like he’s in serious danger at the moment – this entire facility is Vongola-run and owned, remember.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Yamamoto’s eyes drift away from the ceiling to blink at Gokudera, who isn’t looking back at him. Sitting up, he puts his elbows on his knees and folds his hands together in front of him. Why is he still here?

After a few beats, he finally says, “I guess… I just needed to make sure you were really okay.”

There’s a derisive snort, and then, “You fucking sap – it’s not like I’m gonna die.”

This time, it’s Yamamoto’s turn to snort, but his is much softer and less abrasive. “I suppose not,” he says, “but that’s only recent news.” The last part is a little quieter, and he hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud.

Too late now – Gokudera’s eyes flip back over in his direction, and he looks a little… confused. Perhaps he’s taken the doctor’s words with a grain of salt, like it’s the doctor’s job to be overly cautious. But now he’s taking in this new information, and it isn’t matching the image of what happened in his mind. Gokudera finally comes to a conclusion – that much is clear, just watching him.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he concedes.

Yamamoto takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly to a count – like in meditation – and then thinks, What will telling him change? Anything? But he’s afraid it might change much more.

“You… you almost didn’t make it,” Yamamoto says solemnly, looking away. “You were in surgery for hours, and they were having trouble stabilizing your vitals. The internal bleeding was bad enough for you to need a blood transfusion.” He carefully left out the part that he’d been the one to donate.

Gokudera narrows his eyes; apparently he knows as much, but that clearly doesn’t matter. “But I’m fine now, so why the fuss?” he asks, suspiciously.

This is the part Yamamoto doesn’t want to talk about, really – because he knows the direct answer to that question, and it’s something he isn’t comfortable sharing. “When I woke up, after that bastard tried to blow us up, you weren’t… you weren’t breathing, and your heart–”

This brings to mind images he’d rather forget, of waking up to finding Gokudera not moving, not breathing, and the stark fear that shot through him then threatens to strike again now. He takes a deep breath – again, slowly exhaling to focus – before he makes a decision. He really doesn’t want to talk about that.

“I don’t know if you understand what it’s like, having your friend dying and you feel like you can’t do enough to stop it from happening,” he finally says.

One of Gokudera’s eyebrows raises in a confused arch. “But the medics got there in time, right?”

“…They almost didn’t.”

That makes Gokudera think a little more, and as he realizes exactly what Yamamoto is trying to say without actually saying it – that he’d done CPR, the whole press your lips against his and breathe for him ordeal and everything – he looks… like he wants to be angry. He’s fighting it, though – that’s one thing that did change about Gokudera over the years. Less of the shoot first, ask questions later mindset, and more of the wait, let’s talk this through finding its way slowly into his social methodology. It’s a good change, but now Yamamoto feels almost embarrassed. The silence between them now feels so awkward, it’s suffocating and painful.

“Oh,” Gokudera finally says, looking away. Yamamoto thinks it might be a trick of his eyes, but he’s pretty sure Gokudera’s ears are turning red.

The awkward silence returns, and Yamamoto waits for Gokudera to explode in his face over it. The longer that neither of them speak, though, the more worried Yamamoto becomes. It isn’t like Gokudera to be so complacently silent, to take the news of something that might be considered a breach of pride for the self-declared Right Hand Man so easily. But it also gives Yamamoto a small glimmer of hope – of what, he isn’t sure, but it’s a warm sensation that he doesn’t want to let go of.

Gokudera’s soft snort breaks the silence. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, softly.

“And you don’t have to keep punishing yourself over something that hasn’t happened yet,” Yamamoto replies, just as softly. Gokudera grimaces, and Yamamoto knows he struck a chord. “Tsuna still needs a Right Hand Man.”

With a half-hearted scowl, Gokudera says, “Damn straight – can’t let my competition beat me out.”

Yamamoto doesn’t miss the fact that he’s being teased, and he laughs. “Haha, well, you’d better rest up so you can take that position back from me.”

Another snort, “Idiot,” and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Gokudera’s lips. It’s a sign of a slow return to normalcy, a reminder that Gokudera is still very much alive and will be just fine. And it’s a hint that maybe – just maybe – there’s the acknowledgement of something more between them than there was before. Yamamoto finally lets his shoulders relax.

Gokudera’s having trouble keeping his eyes open; the dose of painkillers he’s still on is significant, and Yamamoto takes this as his cue to leave.

“Don’t try to check yourself out again, at least not until the doctor says it’s okay,” Yamamoto says softly, brushing his fingertips against Gokudera’s hand.

Gokudera’s eyes flutter open again briefly, and he grunts. “Or you’ll… what?” he mumbles.

“Or I’ll have to come babysit you some more,” Yamamoto replies with a smile. “At least, wait until I get back before you try anything monstrously stupid again.”

“Fucking… mother hen.”

Yamamoto laughs again, and lightly punches Gokudera’s shoulder. “Then do something about it.”

Gokudera’s already asleep, but there’s a slight smile on his face that tells Yamamoto it’ll be okay. It really will be okay.

He smiles as he leaves the room, feeling the most hope he’s felt in a while.

It’s another six months before the head of the Nori family faces justice, and this time, it’s Tsuna calling the shots. There’s one, two – five total attempts to negotiate, five times Tsuna tried desperately to repair the relationship between the families. Yamamoto wonders if what he and Gokudera did – their raid – affected the talks, but Tsuna assures him that it makes no difference now.

The last assassination attempt on Tsuna ends when the tenth boss of the Vongola shows what he is truly capable of. That confrontation doesn’t take more than a minute, and it happens before any of the Guardians can react. It’s all Tsuna, and this time, Nori’s leader doesn’t come out alive.

It’s strange, how much people can change in such a short time, Yamamoto muses later that night – after it’s all said and done, and they’re back at the base, safe and sound. He leans over the railing on the porch outside the above-ground meeting room, looking down over Namimori’s grounds and taking deep breaths of fresh air.

He notices Gokudera’s presence only when he catches the scent of cigarette smoke on the air.

“Hey!” he says, standing up straight and smiling. It’s a tight, but genuine grin, and he knows it.

“Didn’t I tell you that thinking doesn’t suit you?” comes the gruff response.

Yamamoto snorts as he turns around and rests his elbows on the ledge of the balcony, leaning back. “Haha, I guess you did.”

“What’s done is done – can’t change it.”

The smile falters, and then fades entirely. Yamamoto sighs. “I can’t be the only one wondering if it’s our fault,” he says, quietly.

Gokudera’s next to him now, leaning over the balcony in a gruffer mimicry of Yamamoto’s earlier position. He takes a long drag on the cigarette, lets it out slowly in a gentle stream through his lips. “You heard what the Tenth said; didn’t matter what we did, they’d been gunnin’ for us a long time.”

“We didn’t help.”

“But we didn’t exacerbate the issue,” Gokudera corrects. It’s his turn to sigh – irritably, and he takes another drag on the cigarette, this one harsher and more agitated. Smoke curls around his face as he talks, “Look, I mean it – this isn’t worth dwelling on anymore.”

Maybe it isn’t, but that doesn’t stop Yamamoto from saying, “What if there are others out there like the Nori? How do we know we’re even in the right here?”

There’s a bark of mirthless laughter, and, “Fuck, this is getting too philosophical for you, isn’t it.” Yamamoto sees the sharp glance suddenly directed up at him out of the corner of his vision. “I thought you’d already figured out this wasn’t a game. This is the mafia, idiot. Whether you want to be a part of it or not, you’re smack in the middle of it. We all are – and this is what it’s going to take to survive.”

In a few moments of quiet, Yamamoto lets those words hang on the air, absorbing them as he looks up at the star-dotted sky. It makes him think of Tsuna, and the somber nature their young boss has developed of late. Gokudera takes another drag, the glow from the end of the cigarette glowing in his peripheral vision. Is the killing, death – is all this worth it?

And in that one sideways glance Gokudera gives him, the way the cigarette dangles from his lips – warm, alive, like the rest of the man – the fact that he’s even standing there at all… Yamamoto thinks, Yes. Yes, it is.

Because there are still many things left worth protecting.

A burden feels like it’s lifted from his shoulders, and the smile this time is liberating, free of tension, and wholly genuine. The thank you is unspoken, but that’s how it always is between them. Implied, but never said. He slides his eyes sideways, catches Gokudera’s gaze as he flicks ashes from the butt over the edge of the balcony.

“Are you sure you should be smoking that?” he suddenly blurts.

“… Fucking idiot. Mind your own damn business.”

But he’s smiling, too – and this, this is what’s worth protecting.

// ♪ end track.

AHAHAHA—ohmygod, I am so sorry. SO sorry. I can’t write Yamamoto, or 8059, or ANYTHING to save my life, but by the time I got to page 15, I couldn’t bring myself to start over. ;A; I APOLOGIZE FOR THE MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF FAIL – please, please feel free to shoot me down. Hard. In the ass. ~~Mm, sounds kinky—~~ … I’m not helping my case any, am I?

… /hides.

fanfiction || Going Home [KHR], 1/1 (one-shot)

2008-09-29T09:48:19Z

Title: 02 – Going Home (and I just can't make it all alone) // ♪ rock you like a hurricane mix, track two (@ 30_ballads)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: M. Violence, language, brutality, though not graphic.
Genre: drama, h/c (haha, go figure |D), gen. (No, really! Sh-Shush!)
Word Count: 7,155 (this draft)
Character: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera, and other main cast.
Timeline: 10-Year Gap, closer to... uh... a rather spoilery incident. Closer to that incident than Gokudera would like, of course, which would make this slightly AU?
Beta: ... HAHA nope. It probably shows. Dx
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes. Title from Celldweller's "Tragedy".

→ all 30_ballads installments

Notes: Many thanks to infringe for her idea to add Uri in here. I hadn't even thought of it until she suggested it, haha – and I hope it worked out well enough! Got me out of a short writer's block, at the very least. |DD;; ♥~!

... &WRYYY this took waaaaay too long to write, but I got about 3500 words out tonight? Haha. I think I rushed the ending a bit, because I wanted to finish something if I was going to stay up this late for it. :| HURR.

« going home »
and i just can't make it all alone

There is an uneasiness that settles in the pit of Gokudera's stomach as their plane lands in Rome. He hasn't been here in a long while, and the only reason he has agreed to come is because the Tenth is going – and he sure as hell isn't going to let Tsuna travel to fucking Italy with just the baseball freak to keep an eye on him. This is supposed to be something of a vacation, but Gokudera knows how Reborn's mind works; there's always a catch.

And the moment Reborn says, “Oh, by the way, Tsuna – Dino Cavallone is in town,” Gokudera knows exactly what that catch is.

Dino hasn't exactly been acting like himself of late, according to rumors that have been floating around on the mafia channels. He's done a few things that even has Reborn frowning – or, as close to frowning as the baby can get – and it's causing unease among the Cavallones' allies. The Vongola are no exception, and Reborn is likely thinking of how Dino's strange behavior of late could impact their own family just by association.

Tsuna's eyes go wide and then narrow in sudden understanding after Reborn's revelation. There isn't anyone better to settle the matter than the Vongola's own Tenth boss.

... It doesn't settle well with Gokudera. They all know what Byakuran is capable of, even though they still haven't met him in this timeline. Perhaps they're about to, if Byakuran has found his way through Cavallone defenses at this point in time. It's the first thing that comes to Gokudera's mind in this situation – has Byakuran's reach already made it to Dino? Gokudera can't let the same happen to Tsuna. They already saw the future in which Uni's defenses were (might still be) flattened by whatever technique Byakuran can use. This isn't going to be the Tenth's job.

It's going to be the right hand man's job.

“I'll go,” Gokudera says, before Tsuna can say anything, and putting a hand up in Yamamoto's direction even before he can open his mouth to protest – which he will. “Let me go in and see what the situation is first.”

Tsuna gets a look on his face that Gokudera knows all too well – the one that says, Like hell I'm going to let you – says something about insulting a close friend and ally of his, but Gokudera's already opening his mouth to counter his boss.

“Tenth, this doesn't feel right. Please,” he says, matching Tsuna's serious gaze with a resolute one of his own, “let me do this.”

Much to Gokudera's surprise, Reborn's head is bobbing ever so slightly in an agreeing nod. Straightening his spine, he stands to his full height and musters as much steel into his eyes as he can as he looks down at Tsuna. It's not an attempt to bully – it's not, goddamn it – but Tsuna's old habit of pulling back returns and sends a stab of uncomfortable guilt into Gokudera's stomach. But... but he's resolved now; there's no turning back.

Tsuna ultimately bends, but only after Reborn vocalizes his support, and by the way he's sullenly silent for the rest of the night, he still doesn't like the idea.

And so Gokudera finds himself the next morning at the outer gates of the nearby Cavallone property, one of Dino's estates – and he's alone, (mostly) unarmed – because any unarmed mafia would be caught dead. There are butterflies in his stomach; there is something incredibly unsettling about the atmosphere here, and he's wishing now that he had Tsuna's insight, and the thought makes him want to kick himself repeatedly for cowardice. Because that's not why he's here – he's not here to make a damned fool of himself in the name of his boss.

It's not like Gokudera knows many of Dino's men by name or by face, but something about the men leading him towards the back of the complex tells Gokudera that they're new. Or, perhaps, simply stationed here in Italy most of the year – not part of the core group that Dino still relies on when he goes abroad. They're leading him towards a large, old warehouse sitting in the far corner of the estate, and it looks sorely out of place, like a sore thumb. Gokudera shivers and doesn't feel right, but he refuses to insult the Cavallone – cause Vongola, especially Tsuna, to lose face – just on sheer instinct.

The warehouse is cold, dank, and smells of old socks. Gokudera looks around at the cobweb-coated ceilings and mildly observes that even the windows aren't letting in much light off the river. He's a little surprised that any property of Dino's could be left in such a dilapidated state. There's an approaching clack of dress shoes on concrete and a clearing of throats, and Gokudera shifts his gaze forward to greet the Cavallone entourage accompanying Dino.

One thing has never changed about Dino; he always keeps a group of his most loyal men close by, and draws strength from them. That thought is almost a comfort, and it lasts only until Gokudera's eyes level with Dino's, and– he freezes.

They're blank.

And now Gokudera knows exactly what's wrong, because he's seen it before – but he's caught off guard, because it's only been six years and there shouldn't be this kind of an issue for another two, at the very least–

Goddamn it, this was a fucking bad idea.

Dino's smile sends a shiver down Gokudera's spine. “Gokudera-san,” Dino greets in polite Japanese, his bow almost too formal. “What do we owe the pleasure?”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his nose before replying – can't panic, cannot fucking panic – Gokudera forces a returned smile and says in Italian, “I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by.”

“Just you, then?” Dino seems almost disappointed – stop panicking – and looks behind Gokudera briefly as if confirming the fact that the Vongola Tenth's right hand man is indeed alone. “I apologize I didn't have any tea prepared; I wasn't expecting guests.”

Like hell you weren't.

– It takes a split second too long for Gokudera to hear the shuffle of feet behind him, and they catch him just as he's turning to defend himself when the lights go out. He lashes out behind him and catches a soft lump of flesh with his elbow, a soft exclamation of surprised breathlessness giving him the briefest of satisfactions before two other sets of hands grab his arms and knock him onto his face into the warehouse floor. There's a sharp knee pressing into the small of his back and he can't move.

“Son of a bitch.” The last word sends dust flying from Gokudera's lips, pressed into the dirty cement. And it's not just directed at the Cavallone.

“It's a shame you couldn't bring your boss with you; it would have made things so much easier,” is all he hears Dino say before bright lights flash in his vision, and then all is even blacker than the dark of the dank warehouse.

It only feels like a split second, but the next snatch of awareness Gokudera has is of an actual bright light shining in his eyes. Startled, he jerks away from the sharp intrusion on his dilated pupils only to find his hands bound tightly behind his back, and his ankles lashed firmly to the legs of the cold metal chair he's sitting in.

All he can think is, Fuckfuckfuck, because the worst of his fears isn't supposed to be happening, especially not in a country he already associates with a lot of unpleasantness.

“Ah, you're finally awake, Gokudera.”

The voice is cold, flat, and far too unfamiliar, and even though it's Dino's body, Gokudera glowers at the impostor hiding behind the too-bright lamp shining in his eyes.

“You're not him,” he accuses. “What did you do with Dino?”

When Dino laughs, Gokudera understands what it means to fear – and this isn't a healthy respect this time, either. He's fucking terrified.

“And here I was thinking Sawada was the only one capable of insight out of you Vongola,” Dino says – and Gokudera may not be able to see the smile, but he sure as hell can hear it.

Squirming in the bonds, he sends a glare at the light – quickly turns into a squint – and says, “Doesn't take much insight. You're a godawful actor, whoever you are.”

The silhouette shifts, and there's a soft laugh. “Regardless, it worked well enough,” Dino's voice says with amusement. “Almost as well as I'd have hoped.”

Dino moves forward, broad shoulders blocking the light, and before Gokudera's eyes can adjust, there are ice cold fingers gripping his chin and forcing him to look at a face obscured in shadow. Everything feels wrong, so fucking wrong, and Gokudera tries – unsuccessfully – to jerk his head out of the grip.

“Fuck you,” Gokudera snarls, and spits into the face leering down at him.

The fingers release his chin and he feels an equally cold palm patting his cheek. “Good, there's some fight in you. This should make my job more interesting.”

Those words create a pit of ice in Gokudera's stomach, but he's determined not to let it show on his face – if it's for the Tenth's safety, he will endure. He has to. But he just doesn't know what to expect from not-Dino, because he knows full well this isn't anything like dealing with Mukuro. As much as Gokudera can't quite bring himself to trust their own Mist Guardian, there's not a chance that Mukuro could possibly be the one behind Dino's dark stare.

Gokudera's earlier fears bubble up through his chest again, and his jaw tenses painfully because he knows that he can't do anything about it in his current state. Something he can't quite pin – a feeling, a hunch, perhaps some of the Tenth's intuition that somehow rubbed off on him – tells him that he should be afraid. That he's right, and goddamn if he doesn't want to be.

Because if he's right, Byakuran is ahead of the previous timeline. Way ahead. And that's a major problem, because if Byakuran is already on the move–

He tries hard not to swallow the bile rising in the back of his throat. Tries hard not to let his fears show, but he knows he isn't doing so well because his hands are shaking despite the fact that they're tied behind his back with thick, rough rope. All he can think is, The Tenth is in danger, have to get back–

Hands covered in leather gloves creak in front of him, the light catching on the brass knuckle like it's some kind of God-given artifact. The smile is still on not-Dino's face, but it's turned into something even more sinister, and it's wrong, completely wrong on Dino's usually friendly face. Gokudera's stomach turns, even at the inevitable.

“You're going to tell me where your Boss is,” says not-Dino, “and then you're going to tell me how I might arrange an appointment with him.”

Gokudera purses his lips stubbornly, relieved that they aren't quivering. Hit me, he thinks, because he isn't going to say a goddamned word. I fucking dare you–

White lights and stars take over his vision, and his ears won't stop ringing as he feels like there's something still pressing against his cheek. It hurts just as much as he anticipated, but not more, and with the first blow out of the way, this isn't going to be as hard as he feared, he thinks. Licking his swelling lip, he glares up at a face that he should have been able to trust.

“I just want to have a talk with your Boss.” The leather creaks around the flexing hand again. “Is that too much to ask, from the high and mighty Vongola?”

“It is for you,” Gokudera snaps, then stars flash in his vision again with the back of a hand.

Not-Dino clicks his tongue disapprovingly and says, mockingly, “It's a shame, really – I thought your family had more manners than this.”

Gokudera runs his tongue over the growing bump in his lip again, this time tasting blood from where the flesh split. “You've clearly never spoken to me before, you douchebag.”

There's a short bark of laughter, and not-Dino leans in closer again, bringing with him the faint smell of leather and stale cigarette smoke. “It's a wonder that Vongola Decimo puts up with your atrocious etiquette,” he sneers, and adds, “But perhaps it isn't so strange – Sawada isn't much of a mafia boss anyway.”

It's one thing when someone insults Gokudera personally. He can handle it – he has his entire life, anyway – but this jackass' accusations against the Tenth are unacceptable. Snarling, ignoring the spittle that dribbles down his chin (or is it blood?) as his blood boils.

“You have no fucking idea what kind of a man the Tenth is, you son of a bitch! How dare you insult someone you hardly know? Bastard!” Gokudera's voice is harsh with rage and frustration, and it hurts his throat in the process. But he doesn't care, because this man insulted the only person that Gokudera believes is worth giving up his own life for.

And not-Dino is grinning, which suddenly makes Gokudera feel all kinds of stupid – he's letting the man get to him, and that's not acceptable either in this kind of a situation.

“Ohoho, struck a nerve, have I? Perhaps you should introduce me to him so I can see for myself that he is worth defending.”

Gokudera grits his teeth and looks away, but stays quiet at the blatant baiting. He can't afford to slip any more than he already has. The most important thing now is that the Tenth stays safe – and at this point, Gokudera is thankful to whatever gods decided to bestow the gift of Hyper Intuition upon Tsuna, because if not-Dino figures out that Tsuna's in Italy...

No. Not going to happen.

There's another click of not-Dino's tongue. “Not feeling so talkative now, then? Why don't we loosen that tongue of yours.”

That's all the warning Gokudera has before there's a blow across his face that's a lot harder than the last time – feels like his cheekbone is going to shatter under the impact – and he's blind and his ears are ringing and feel like they're stuffed with cotton. He thinks he might have lost consciousness this time, and distantly wonders if not-Dino hit him with the brass knuckles.

It feels like only a split second before the black spots clear from his sight, and a fuzzy outline of not-Dino's face takes darkness' place. His cheek feels like someone is still pressing against it, and it throbs in time with his heartbeat – pounding – as he tries to focus. The way his ears are still ringing and the fact that not-Dino sounds like he's speaking from a distance away underwater – this tells him that his earlier assessment likely wasn't too far off the mark.

When he finally catches his breath enough to groan, he can't help the hot tears pricking his eyes and momentarily hates his own body's instinctive response. This is how it's going to be, he realizes as he gingerly rubs his tongue across his bleeding lip. No turning back now. It's say nothing or die a coward.

Question, silence, pain. Question, silence, pain – their conversation continues in this manner, no matter what question is asked, Gokudera keeps his tongue in check.

Question – where is Sawada? – silence, pain. His nose feels like it's going to fall off.

Question – where is the nearest Vongola estate? – silence, pain. He spits out a broken tooth.

Where are the other Guardians? Broken fingers. And, Do they know you're here? – it's all the same question, anyway, and Gokudera doesn't understand why they're bothering to ask him still – the cost of this round of silence is a crushed toe.

Question – what exactly is your relationship with Sawada? – and Gokudera doesn't understand why that matters, unless they plan to use him as bait. But they don't get that it's already in his job description, and it's not like the Tenth is going to personally come and get him. Reborn knows better than that. But he still doesn't say anything of the matter, because it won't do him any good; he's got stars blinking across his eyes now and a sore neck from his head snapping around so much, and it's on to the next question.

Several questions later, and Gokudera isn't sure he can see out of his left eye anymore – it's swollen, and his cheek feels like it's as broken as his nose is now. He doesn't even want to think about the mess his fingers have become; they hurt every fucking bit as much as he'd been told they would, if broken. Instead of feeling miserable and scared, he's just tired.

And all these questions – the same, all the same – begin to chip away at a defense he didn't know he had up. Question, silence and a pinprick of doubt, and then Gokudera's sure his face looks like it's been run through a meat grinder at this point. Feels like it. Each question makes that pinprick of doubt a little harsher, a little sharper, cutting deeper, and it makes him wonder what's transpiring in the Tenth's office. Now every question they ask him, he asks one for himself.

Do they know where you are? becomes, Do they even notice you're still gone?

Why did you come alone? is now, Was it Reborn's intention for me to be here like this?

How close are you to Sawada? means, Does the Tenth even care?

At that thought, he finally starts to panic, and he talks.

“Are we done yet? My neck's getting stiff,” he says, trying hard not to let it show in his face that he's starting to doubt even himself. His voice cracks anyway, but he thinks it's because it might be dry instead. The room's spinning out of control.

There's a pause, then a sharp blow to his gut that knocks the wind out of him. Stars sparkle around the edges of his vision.

He opens his eyes again, realizing then that he has been unconscious – and he's alone, he thinks. For the time being. Still tied to the chair, he tries to look around the room, but his abused head throbs and his bruised stomach churns and it takes all the self-control he can muster to keep himself from revisiting whatever is left in his stomach. He has a bad, bad feeling that the damage done isn't so minor, but he can't dwell on that because he knows it will become another weak spot in his carefully-constructed armor.

Not that he hasn't already shown them a weak spot – they just don't know it yet. Obviously didn't take advantage of the one opening he's given them so far, and he's not about to give them another. He hasn't followed the Tenth to hell and back to start casting doubts at the person who changed his life (for the better, he hopes).

But Gokudera still wonders if his family is even looking for him. How long has he been here now, anyway? The hours are distorted, disguised as minutes, sometimes as days – it's like a fucking game that Mukuro would play–

Or perhaps Reborn. Lights go on, Dino smiles apologetically, everyone laughs and it's one big fucking joke on him for the sake of training. Hah. Haha.

He shudders at that thought, wincing and hissing softly as the movement sends fire along his damaged nerves. The room's still dark, no shout of surprise! Just kidding! But the doubt begins to grow again, and this time it's not Tsuna he's worried about; it's the fact that Reborn sent him here, alone, and that it's Dino he's stuck with. His mind whirs, trying to place the puzzle pieces when he realizes one crucial detail: This really isn't Dino.

Whoever he's dealing with, that individual knows how to do something that Gokudera has only seen Mukuro pull off successfully. And then he recalls the first time they faced Mukuro – wasn't there a bullet involved? Gokudera can't remember too well, because parts of his memory of that fight are blurred with his own hands moving on their own accord, trying to steal life from the very person he tries his hardest to protect. That isn't something he likes to dwell on.

But the bullet – that part is important. If this isn't Mukuro he's dealing with, then there's someone else who knows how to use it. And if it really is Byakuran behind the strings leering down from the shadows above their own little stage, then Gokudera's entire family is in serious trouble. The future they all saw never involved contraband Possession Bullets.

Gokudera's mind is racing now, almost as much as his breath. His chest hurts, but he can't tell if it's from his injuries at this point, or if he's panicking too fucking much – he knows he is. He can't help but continue down this path, like a hunting dog on the scent of its prey. Didn't Byakuran have the ability to manipulate minds in general as well? He never was able to possess anyone, to Gokudera's knowledge (and he knew quite a bit about the Byakuran they met in the future), but if Byakuran had indeed managed to get his fingers on the Possession Bullet...

“You're awake, Gokudera Hayato.” Gokudera sucks in a startled breath, then hisses it back out as pain flares through his ribs. It's Dino's voice, but using a tone very similar to something Gokudera's heard before–

And Gokudera realizes he's on the right track.

He smiles.

“Ready to talk now?”

He has no fucking clue. Gokudera's smile broadens triumphantly; he relishes the feeling even as his cracked lips begin to bleed again. If he knows who he's dealing with, he knows he's less likely to show any more weaknesses. He's been hurt worse than this before – what's the worst they could do to him?

... Perhaps he shouldn't think about that, but at any rate, Byakuran is hesitating. That much is a start in Gokudera's new plan to unnerve the bastard as much as he possibly can. Maybe he can figure out a way to get Dino to wake the fuck up and shove the intrusive son of a bitch out, because he knows that Tsuna won't like his friends being used this way.

Tsuna isn't going to like any of this, come to think of it. He snorts, and he realizes only after the fact that it sounds like a laugh, though there's no humor in the situation he's in right now.

“What's so damned funny?”

But maybe there is humor here, because now he has the upper hand – screw the fact that he's tied into this fucking chair and beat all to hell and–

There's a huff of breath, all the warning Gokudera has before stars explode in his vision again. It's a familiar pain, one that Gokudera has no trouble compartmentalizing and shifting to the back of his mind. He'll save that for later, when he can afford the luxury to care.

“Hit me harder – I don' see li'l Dino-pixies flyin' 'round m'head yet,” Gokudera says, not really caring that words aren't coming out properly anymore.

Not-Dino – Byakuran – answers Gokudera's request, almost a little too quickly. He's dizzy again, and knows it's probably a bad idea to be baiting someone who wouldn't hesitate to kill him should he find a good enough reason to, but he can't help himself.

“Y'wanted me to talk, didn'tcha?” Gokudera slurs. “M'talkin' now, bastard.” He pauses a second before he adds, “Fuck you.”

He swear he can hear not-Dino's teeth grinding together from where he sits, but there's only a beat of silence before a sigh, and then, “If you're not going to say anything useful, then you're not worth anything to us.”

Gokudera snorts. No shit. But he catches himself before he says something incredibly stupid, like, probably, or anything that would tell Byakuran that he knows exactly who he's fucking with; it would be a pretty bad idea to get himself killed, because he knows something important now – something Tsuna needs to know.

He has to get out of here.

It occurs to him then that he's only been bound with rope, and not metal – it's something that can be manipulated, stretched, broken at the right tension. At this point, he's willing to sacrifice the skin on his wrists if he can just get his ring around to one of the boxes strapped to his hips–

–He still has his ring, despite the broken finger it's resting on. And the boxes, and– this means that Byakuran doesn't know about any of this just yet. This is going to be easier than I thought.

He smirks, closes his eyes, and focuses; feels the flame without needing to see it, as it sputters to life around the ring. The training in the future has already been paying itself off. The flame's force is so strong that it already weakens the ropes around his wrists. There's a shuffle in the dark around him – out of time, damn it – and he opens his eyes and pulls as hard as he can, ignoring the burning, tearing feeling at his wrists as the cords break with a loud snap.

Doesn't matter that there are hands reaching for his arms and shoulders. It's his turn, now.

Gokudera doesn't hesitate as he slams the ring into the first box he can reach, hoping to God that it's the skull weapon. A flash of light, a poof of smoke, and–

There's a fierce growl as sharp claws graze Gokudera's cheek.

... Fuck.

Except that Uri's already growling, growing, and – despite the cat's angry swipes in Gokudera's direction, he realizes that the damn cat is actually trying to help him, in its own sick, twisted way. Not exactly the box he's looking for, but it'll do for the time being. He reaches down and works to free his ankles from the chair.

Uri's growl is fierce and sends a shudder down even Gokudera's spine as the cat moves its paws in front of him protectively, herding Gokudera – now free – towards what he hopes is an exit. The cat likely can see better than he can in this light, though the dying will flames are definitely improving the amount of distance he can see in the dank, dark room. He takes the time to feel for the right box this time, and shoves his ring into the opening at the top.

The familiar skull weapon wraps itself around his forearm, and he aims it in front of him at the moving shadows.

At this point, there's still a lot of smoke from the box releases hanging heavily in the air, and though the lights are dim, Gokudera can see a lot of bodies moving around as silhouettes in the smoke screen. Muttered curses float from all directions, and Gokudera has to wonder how many of them there are blocking him from his exit.

No matter, he's going to take them down on his way out. A little payback for what they've been doing to him for however long he's been here.

First things first – he's going after Byakuran, his Dino suit be damned. It'll be difficult, because Tsuna would be upset if Dino was seriously hurt, but Gokudera doesn't have a choice in this matter if he wants to survive the trip out of here. And none of the other assholes with Byakuran are true Cavallone, anyway – Gokudera didn't recognize a single face, when he was able to see them. Have to be Byakuran's, which means they're fair game in Gokudera's mind.

Except Byakuran finds him first, with a harsh blow to the back of his knees that sends him crashing to the ground. He catches himself on hands with broken fingers, and the white-hot pain that flares up his arms is almost enough to knock him out.

“Think you're so fucking smart, you brat,” Byakuran hisses in Dino's voice. “Well, you've got another thing coming if you think you're getting out of here alive at this point.”

Gokudera's trying to catch his breath, but doesn't have the opportunity when Byakuran pulls out the whip that Dino's so fond of using. The end of it strikes his back with a sharp crack, and he can't stop the pained, surprised cry from escaping his lips. Uri growls, whirling on Byakuran and taking a swipe at the man. Byakuran has the sense to avoid the claws, but the cat's massive paw still connects and sends him flying.

“Th-Thanks, Uri,” Gokudera finds himself saying automatically. The cat simply rolls a half-meowing growl back at him, and turns to look for more prey.

It takes too long for Gokudera to find his feet again, with the way his knees are shaking. The adrenaline and determination to complete the goddamned mission he's given himself – these can only do so much for his battered body; he's having trouble breathing, and his hands are on fucking fire. He grits his teeth and pulls out dynamite with his broken fingers anyway, because they're going to need more firepower to get out of here.

Here goes nothing.

He hurls the bombs at the moving shadows, making sure not to hit the cat, blocking his face from the shockwave of heat that accompanies the chest-rattling boom of the explosion. The brief flash of bright light illuminates the door just long enough for him to locate it – on the other side of the room – as he staggers back a few steps from the force of the blast. Taking several shaky steps in the right direction, he hopes that he'll be able to get there before anyone else can find him.

There's a metallic clang as the door flies open, and the overhead lights flicker to life, so bright to Gokudera's unadjusted eyes that he has to squint.

“Gokudera!”

That voice – he could swear that his heart stops at this moment, his chest burning from not breathing for that split second. Bright lights be damned, Gokudera's eyes fly open as he searches the room for the familiar face of his boss, and he's torn between relief and an overwhelming, giddy warm feeling bubbling in his stomach as he realizes he hasn't been forgotten–

It all fades, the moment he sees Byakuran twist Dino's mouth into a smirk from across the room. There's a raised gun in his hands–

“Tenth! Get out of here, now!”

Tsuna's eyes widen in worry and confusion, and there isn't going to be enough time, damn it I've failed again, there's only one option left before he really will have to bury Tsuna–

He remembers every detail of the coffin in the future, and grits his teeth against the memory.

No. Not this time.

He moves.

There's only one place Gokudera goes in his dreams, and while it's in Italy, it's never about the location, because honestly, he rather hates what he once called his homeland. Instead, it's about a room, bright with natural light let in from skylights and tall bay windows, and the baby grand piano that sits in the middle of all that light – a private stage.

His fingers brush the smooth ivory of the keys, instinct guiding them as they press and brush against the keys in a soft cadence. The piano is well-tuned, the music absorbing into and echoing perfectly off of the room's acoustic features, and he lets his mind drift, the music washing over him like cool water on a summer's day. These moments, he cherishes – there aren't many of them that aren't tainted with memories of bad cookies and poisoned sandwiches forced down his throat as a child for the sake of the art.

Instead of his father watching with an unreadable glint in his eyes, there are only a handful of other people in the room, all taking on faces of people he considers his family. The Tenth. The baseball freak. That damn woman, the stupid cow, that damn cat curled up on the armrest of the couch they're all sitting on, even his half-sister, eyes covered in goggles. These are the only people he would ever wish to play for, after all. Alive, well, safe – and it's at this point he realizes that this is just a pleasant dream, one he doesn't want to wake up from.

This, what he has in front of him – this is what he calls home. And it feels like it's been a lifetime since he's had one.

He plays on, through the first movement, and second, and on to the third, well on his way to the tenth – but it's halfway through the sixth that a hand lands on his, stopping him. He looks up in confusion, only to see the room and the piano and everything else fading – and Tsuna's face is sad as it fades.

“It's time to wake up, Gokudera,” Tsuna says, softly. His grip tightens around Gokudera's hand.

And against all of his instincts to stay and hide from the world, to cling to this dream as stubbornly as he can, there's no way he can disobey an order from the Tenth.

He gasps as his eyes fly open, wincing when the pain sinks its sadistic claws deep into his body, and frowning as it fades as quickly as it hits him. It takes a moment for him to blink at the ceiling and realize that it actually is white, not just blurry, and that he's attached to an IV with some extremely strong drugs attached. Hospital.

And – there's still a hand gripping his.

“Thank God,” he hears Tsuna say hoarsely, and the stark relief in Tsuna's voice causes Gokudera's mind to race.

Dino. Cavallone estate, a warehouse, a dank, dark room with a single light shining in his eyes. No, no; not Dino – Byakuran. Possession Bullet. Have to tell the Tenth–

Gokudera tries to sit up too quickly, but his throat burns and he's choking on something and can't breathe, and god, the pain – he feels more than one set of hands easing him back down, worried voices floating over his head.

“M'okay,” he mutters irritably, but it's muffled by something in his mouth. He hears a familiar – annoying – no, not annoying – laugh.

“See? He'll be just fine,” the baseball freak says. “You should go sleep, Tsuna – I can take over from here.”

Gokudera doesn't have the strength to protest, though he does register several different whispered voices in the room and distantly wonders just how many people there are in that room with him. The sound of evenly-timed hissing air drowns them out, and eventually his head's throbbing so loudly that it outshouts even the hissing sounds.

The next time he wakes up, Yamamoto's reading a book as he sits in the chair next to the bed. It's a book on baseball strategy – go figure, he thinks – but it's quickly set aside once Yamamoto looks up and meets his gaze.

“Hey! You're awake!”

Gokudera's nose wrinkles into as much of a snarl as he can manage. “Thanks... Captain Obvious,” he grinds out, his throat still burning.

He coughs, and Yamamoto blinks before saying, “Oh!” as he scrambles to grab a plastic cup with a straw sticking out of it.

Yamamoto looks tired, Gokudera realizes as he drinks as much of the cool water as he can handle. Too much worrying going on here. He's not dead – not gonna die now, if he's awake.

“Go home,” he says, voice still rough and hoarse.

There's a laugh, and then a serious stare. “We're still in Italy – it'd be back to a hotel room, anyway. Not like I can get around alone on my bad Italian,” Yamamoto replies, smiling.

Gokudera scowls. “Study... then.”

Yamamoto just laughs this time, and Gokudera's suddenly finding himself too tired to say something irritable in reply. He watches through half-closed eyelids as Yamamoto's smile disappears, replaced with a worried frown when he thinks Gokudera isn't watching. Yamamoto pulls out his cell phone and dials a number, speaking in soft, stern tones to whoever is on the other end of the line. Gokudera falls back asleep before he can concentrate on what Yamamoto's saying over the phone, and decides that the next time he wakes up, he's insisting on taking away the damned drugs.

The next snatch of awareness, Gokudera feels cool, soft hands smoothing his hair back from his face, and an unfamiliar voice speaking in a worried tone. There's a feminine voice replying from close by, and it takes a moment of gut-twisting instinct to realize that it's Bianchi sitting with him this time. He refuses to open his eyes this time, just in case his stomach rebels – and he slips away again.

Finally, he wakes in increments, and realizes that he doesn't hurt as much, and that there isn't a fuzzy, cottony feeling between his ears when he opens his eyes. Tsuna's there, smiling gently at him with a sad relief that only the Tenth can manage.

“Hey,” Tsuna says, voice thick. “Welcome back.”

Gokudera's lips feel too dry and swollen to smile back, but he tries anyway and gets almost halfway there. The drugs aren't as strong – the aches and pains might be less overwhelming, but they're sharper than before and linger longer – and he blinks, trying to get the whole room into focus now. Yamamoto is asleep in the chair across the room, snoring loudly, baseball book drooped over his face.

“How long?” Gokudera asks, voice still feeling a bit raspy. He clears it with a close-mouthed cough and a wince.

“Three days,” Tsuna replies, looking away. “Six, if you count how long you were held captive. We thought we were going to lose you.”

Gokudera frowns – that long? – but then realizes Tsuna is scrutinizing him with a worried expression. He tries for the smile again. “Nah, can't kill me,” he says – slowly, because it's what he has the energy for. “M'fucking indestructible.”

Tsuna snorts, and it's as much laughter as Gokudera could expect from him in this situation. He'll take whatever he can get. He looks at Tsuna carefully.

“You okay?” he asks.

Tsuna nods. “... Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'm just fine. You're the one in the hospital.”

Gokudera winces. “M'sorry, Tenth.”

“N-No!” Tsuna exclaims, waving his hands in front of his face in protest. “No, I should be the one saying sorry. If I'd been able to find you sooner–”

“It wasn't exactly easy to find,” Gokudera insists. “It's... It's not your fault – you did what you could. You came, didn't you?”

Tsuna still doesn't look too happy, but Gokudera doesn't have another chance to try to comfort him when Yamamoto startles awake, his book dropping to the floor with an unceremonious thud. He blinks, then looks up at Gokudera and smiles that damned goofy grin of his.

“You're back!” he says, almost too cheerfully. “Good, I'll go tell the doctor–”

Gokudera tries to stop him, but doesn't open his mouth to protest in time.

Tsuna doesn't bring up the subject again.

Gokudera brings it up later, when they're about to get off the private jet. His back and rear and legs are stiff from sitting still for so long, but he aches too much to move them around much just yet – and he refuses to let any of this show on his face as he regards Tsuna seriously.

Tsuna looks horrified at first, when Gokudera talks about what he discovered while he was being held captive. But the horror fades, to be replaced with anger, and then worry as he looks back at the visible bandages on Gokudera's hands. He resists the urge to hide them under the Boss' stare, because they're going to have to come to terms with it sooner or later. Now's as good a time as any, really.

“I wish it hadn't happened there,” Tsuna finally says, once Gokudera finishes speaking.

Gokudera blinks, at first misunderstanding what Tsuna says. “Dino's okay – that's all that matters, isn't it? I still trust him.” The look on Tsuna's face tells him he's totally missed the meaning, and his mouth forms a silent, “Oh” once he gets it.

He's quiet for a moment, staring at his hands, thinking. A breath, and, “Italy isn't exactly a home to me, Tenth,” he says after a beat. When Tsuna starts looking upset, Gokudera waves his hands to stop him and says, quickly, “A-A home is somewhere that you can go to escape the world, where you're most comfortable, right? Well... doesn't that count, when you're with the people you care the most about? Italy just isn't that place.”

Tsuna's eyes widen as he thinks about it, then he sighs with a small smile once Gokudera's words sink in. “I guess you're right about that, Gokudera,” he replies.

The air clears, and the rest of the ride seems far more comfortable, despite the physical annoyances of having a bruised and battered body on the mend. But when Tsuna turns around, Gokudera relaxes back into his seat, and falls asleep with a stupid smile on his face (he can't help it if the stupid baseball freak is rubbing off on him) as Tsuna and Yamamoto hold a quiet conversation in the seats in front of him.

Gokudera is forced into a wheelchair and still feels like a mummy when they disembark from the plane, back in Japan – finally – and back to the limo that's waiting for them at the airport. Yamamoto pushes the wheelchair, and Tsuna walks ahead – goes to the limo first and opens the door, smiling back at Gokudera as he does so.

“Welcome home,” he says.

Gokudera blinks in surprise, and then smiles.

“I'm home.”

// ♪ end track

... *urge to make bad crack!omake of Gokuroach and Rock Ballad Piano-playing rising*

fanfiction || Tempesta di Sabbia [KHR], 1/1 (one-shot)

2008-06-26T19:26:11Z

Title: 01 – Tempesta di Sabbia // ♪ rock you like a hurricane mix, track one (@ 30_ballads)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating/Warnings: M (L,V – mostly language, haha), spoilers for TYL/future!Arc.
Genre: action, angst-ish?, h/c (I COULD NOT RESIST SHUSH)
Character: Hayato “Smokin' Bomb” Gokudera
Timeline: ... Yes, another not-quite-10-year-gap fic, like... 8 years after the TYL Arc.
Beta: ... I really should get one for KHR stuff. Dx And I gave up on checking it; I apologize for any mistakes I didn't catch - feel free to point them out!
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

Notes: Guess what, guyz. In the process of thinking of ways to use “sandstorm” as a prompt (not that it was terribly difficult with Gokudera), and in the process, I found on wiki that a “shamal” is “a summer northwesterly wind blowing over Iraq and the Persian Gulf states (including Saudi Arabia and Kuwait), often strong during the day, but decreasing at night. This weather effect occurs anywhere from once to several times a year. The resulting wind typically creates large sandstorms that impact Iraq, although most sand is picked up from Jordan and Syria.” ... Yeah. Total dorkflail moment. I only wish I could've incorporated that a little better. asjkdflajdfklja

→ all 30_ballads installments

« tempesta di sabbia »

A fierce wind blows, rattling the windowpanes and driving the trees into a high-pitched, creaking howl. The sounds of the raging storm permeate the room, its only occupant ignoring them as he taps his pencil against his large wooden desk in cadence with the tick tick tick of the antique Grandfather clock near the door. The tapping gets louder and more pronounced the longer he sits and stares at the papers scattered across the desk in front of him.

The timing – it's the timing that's bothering him. The summon to southeastern Italy during one of its coldest and windiest seasons, the fact that the Tenth's meeting with another family's boss is so late at night, the fact that Gokudera isn't there with them simply because he isn't welcome. He doesn't like how they speak Barese around him – goddamn it, Italian is my native language too, fuckers – and seem to be smug in the knowledge that he doesn't understand, except he does and the knowledge doesn't help his gut instinct. Or his mood.

So it's not entirely his fault that he doesn't trust their men – and besides, he didn't start the fight, but he sure as hell finished it. They should know better than to rile up Vongola the Tenth's right hand man.

Except now he's been exiled from the boss meeting over it, and of all people, the goddamned baseball freak is going in his place.

That, too – that irritates Gokudera even further, and he taps the pencil so hard against the desk now that it might break without him even noticing. Yamamoto hardly knows ten words in Italian; there's not a chance he would understand a word they're saying in Barese. And, need it be said again, Gokudera is not comfortable with the other family's current membership.

He's glaring down at the blueprints for the other family's estate (which is hosting them), scrutinizing the building where he knows Tsuna is meeting with the other boss, trying to find escape routes and other means by which he might be able to break in. The estate backs up against the Adriatic Sea, and the family has its own private coast guard just off shore.

... He needs a fucking smoke.

It's been a while since he's smoked – he cut back drastically on his tobacco intake once he realized that the second hand smoke might start affecting the Tenth's health – but right now, it's all he really wants because it's what he does when he's frustrated and pissed and really can't do anything else about it. Stress relief, he tells himself.

So he braves the wind and goes outside to smoke on the beach. Fuck anyone who comes up and tells him otherwise – he's got a stick of dynamite that says he has a goddamned right.

It's hard to light up in the wind, but after a few tries, the end of the stick glows a blood red in the dark. Hardly enough light to see by, but he doesn't need to see to know that he's being watched. Keenly. Like predators about to pounce.

He snorts a breath of derisive laughter around the end of the cigarette in his mouth, thinking that it's about fucking time for round two.

A fist flies at his face in the dark, and he's already sidestepped the first fool to come forward. There's a surprised grunt when Gokudera feels shins connect against his outstretched leg, followed by a sand-muffled thump when the attacker's body hits the beach. He's smirking, even though it's dark and they probably can't see much of his face even with the glowing end of the cigarette dangling from his lips.

There are a few angry mutters in the dark – nothing too loud, most of it muffled by wind – and there is a shuffling of feet in the sand around Gokudera as he stands there, eyes closed (not that having them open will make a difference in this light), listening. There are whispers in rapid Barese he doesn't quite catch, and two more suits come at him from separate ends.

With the quiet exhales of breath he barely hears over the wind as they put power behind their swings, there's something that isn't quite right about the way this goes down, and the thought forms a tight, worrisome knot in the pit of Gokudera's stomach. The more they swing – and miss – and stay silent – too damned quiet – the more the knot tightens in his stomach. And then it hits him like a bucket of cold water, because they're being far too careful about the noise level even though there's the wind and the sand and these men are on their own territory.

It clicks.

Traitors. This whole trip has to be a set-up, they're smack in the middle of it, the Tenth is compromised – yet again, his own foolishness – and the irritation from earlier turns to stark panic, cold like ice in his belly.

The wind stops, but he doesn't even notice as he pulls out a handful of miniature dynamite, lighting the ends with his still-burning cigarette. Half, he spreads almost entirely around him – the other half, he throws down into the sand. He guards his face with his forearms, remembering what Shamal has reminded him time and again (in not so many kind words) – he can't protect the Tenth if he can hardly protect himself – and quickly sidesteps the explosions, following the last safe path.

Something sharp slides against his side, and it stings as it passes but he can't see what it is in the dark. The cigarette almost drops from his mouth in surprise, but he grits his teeth when he sees the blade swinging towards him a second time, he twists to let it past, and grabs the arm carrying it with a vice grip and twists until he can see the rest of the man who's trying to gut him with a stiletto. These guys are really stubborn, Gokudera notes, and that makes him worry even more because they might not want him to leave this place alive.

The Tenth is definitely in danger, he decides, and gives the arm another vicious twist until it's behind the man and the muscles and bones are torqued until they're about to snap. The man opens his mouth to scream, and Gokudera growls you should never have fucked with us just before he lights a stick of dynamite and shoves it between the man's lips, waiting until the fuse is almost gone before he drops the man's arm and dives away.

He doesn't look back to see the mess he leaving behind.

There's an open beach ahead of him, and he can see the lights on in the building where the Tenth is. Gokudera takes a step in that direction, staggers, and grits his teeth – he has to verify that nothing has been done yet to the Tenth. He can't help it; it's been almost eight years since they've returned from their own future, and Gokudera can't help but try to calculate the day that the attempt on Tsuna's life will take place. He's counting down, and every single meeting gone wrong becomes another suspicious event that will try to take the Tenth from him. He can't let that happen. That's all that matters to him at this point; fuck the inter-family politics that he's completely ignoring tonight.

There are grunts of pain behind him, and rapid, muffled footbeats against the sand force him to turn around again. He can't see in the dark, but he can hear – and he hears the man's yell moving in his direction. Stepping aside and ducking, the man's shoulder slams into his, and they both spin and fall to the ground. Gokudera gets his stability back first and slams the man into the ground, an arm pressing the man's throat down into the sand. His assailant swallows, the lump moving harshly against Gokudera's arm.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull?” Gokudera hisses in Italian. “Thought you guys were supposed to be making peace with ours.”

The man's teeth are white enough to shine even in the dark as he smiles. “Y-You're just in the way of our goal,” he says, and there's a predatory undertone in the man's voice that sends shivers down Gokudera's spine.

A small glint in the man's hands catches his attention, and Gokudera realizes that this time, it's not a knife or even a gun – it's a ring box, and there's a small green glow just before the box is all bright lights and crackling energy and paralyzing pain.

Fuckfuckfuck – Gokudera grits his teeth against the agonizing pressure building in his chest, rolls away and grabs a box from his own side and presses his ring into it. His most familiar box weapon wraps itself around his forearm, the skull at his wrist demanding ammunition in glowing crimson words. Pulling himself to his knees, he presses a stick of dynamite into the opening, eyes narrowing as he stares directly at his target and imagines a concentrated blast of red flame that immediately comes to life out of the skull's mouth. He uses one of Shamal's breathing techniques as he fires.

Again, Gokudera is grateful that Shamal – in not so many words or blatantly obvious ways – has helped him understand the box weapons, despite the fact that the man seems to hate the fact that he's helping someone not belonging to the fairer sex. Shamal's claim that he helps Gokudera in the hope that he'll get closer to Bianchi is a weak one at best. Gokudera isn't stupid, nor does he truly understand the reason behind Shamal's assistance, but he's grateful.

All that's left of the other man is smoke and ash and sand, swirling in the air before it settles. Gokudera shudders as he tries to stand – he didn't notice when he'd fallen to his knees – and takes a deep breath, wincing as remnant pain flashes through his chest and side.

“Hayato!” he hears distantly, and he swears his heart stops, because that voice is the only one he wants to hear right now.

“T-Tenth!” he says hoarsely, eyes seeking and finding both Tsuna and Yamamoto standing just outside the building.

He takes a deep breath as he tries not to choke on the bubble of relief that's making its way up the back of his throat. By the look on the Tenth's face, he knows he's probably in trouble, but he doesn't care right now. The Tenth is here, alive, but still in danger, and he can't drop his guard yet. Instead, he forces himself to his feet, and – one glance at the enemy boss standing just feet away from his family is all it takes for something in him to snap.

With a snarl, he lunges forward and pushes Tsuna aside as he grabs the other family's head man and slams him against the side of the building.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull?” he roars in Italian, ignoring Tsuna's startled pleas for him to stop, shrugging off Yamamoto's hand on his shoulder and not quite succeeding. “The Tenth insisted we come here on the good faith that your family would not attack ours, despite every insistence of mine that your family is trouble. God, I was so fucking stupid to let him pull the blinders over his own eyes and to let him ignore my warnings – give me one fucking good reason why I shouldn't just kill you right now!”

He's gasping for breath after this, because his injuries are a little more serious than he'd like to admit, and they're starting to catch up with his sore body. The boss' expression is one of pure shock, then anger, then confusion as Gokudera yells in his face, and he slumps.

“I'm sorry,” is all he says, and his eyes can't meet Gokudera's. Gokudera blinks in surprise and almost drops the man, but then the words sink in and now he's pissed.

“You! You fucking planned this, didn't you?” he snaps.

The boss' eyes meet his, and Gokudera can't ignore the sadness in them – it nearly swallows him, and his grip loosens, but the other boss doesn't make any move to escape.

“Gokudera, what the hell are you doing?” Tsuna's voice insists, and it's sharp enough to almost hurt. But Gokudera can't stop this now. “Put that man down, now!”

“I didn't,” the boss says, ignoring Tsuna entirely and focusing entirely on Gokudera. “But I did know that some of my men did not like what you Vongola stand for. I didn't realize that their hatred ran this deep. I'm sorry – I should have stopped them.”

Gokudera isn't sure what to say to that, because he can tell that the man isn't lying – Gokudera can usually pick up a lie kilometers away, and he feels no deception in this man's words. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he slams one hand into the wall next to the man's head before he lets go and drops to his knees and fists in the sand, shaking as he presses his forehead to the ground.

This could have been it, is all he can think, and his mind is whirling so violently around relief and guilt and frustration and pain that he can't pull it together.

Yamamoto's large, calloused hand falls on his back, and Gokudera hates how much it's helping him harness his mind's roar into something less painful and confusing. Distantly, Tsuna and the other boss are talking apologetically – it sounds like the Tenth is finally, finally no longer in danger – and orders are being yelled for a medic.

Funny, Gokudera thinks with a snort. Dead men don't need medical attention, but then one look at Yamamoto's frown informs him that he's said that aloud.

“It's not for them, Gokudera,” is all Yamamoto says, and he looks positively worried. It's then that Gokudera remembers he's probably covered in blood and sand and burns.

“Don't need one,” he insists, but his body won't stop shaking and he's feeling light-headed and woozy when he tries to straighten and he's going to–

There are muffled voices above him, a hand on his forehead, and the ground under his back jolts his body every so often. They're moving somewhere, and he thinks he's on a stretcher but can't seem to find the energy to open his eyes. He still smells salt and fish and feels crisp, cool air on his face – they're still near the beach, or on it – and he hears a low whistle as they travel.

“God, I'm glad he's on our side,” a voice – Gokudera recognizes it as one of their own – says admirably.

“Sawada, remind me to never piss off your right hand man,” the other boss' voice says in heavily accented Japanese, his voice low. They're looking at the destruction on the beach, Gokudera realizes, and it warms him, oddly, to feel recognized. It makes any pain worth bearing just to know that he's doing what he sets out to accomplish – ensuring the Tenth's safety at any cost.

It warms him even further when he hears Tsuna's voice – and there is pride in his words, “He's the Guardian of Storm, after all.”

// ♪ end track

fanfiction || Poisonous Thinking [KHR], 1/1 (one-shot)

2008-06-20T09:15:03Z

First of the 1000+ word prompt!fics from this post! This one happens to breach the 2k word mark. For corelle's prompt: KHR, YamaGoku friendship, frustration.

Title: Poisonous Thinking
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating: T
Genre: action, angst, h/c
Characters: Yamamoto, Gokudera
Warnings: language, implied violence, bloooood
Timeline: More 10-year gap fic, which means spoilers for future!Arc, if you're keeping up with the English releases of the manga. I'd say this fits in not too long after the future!Arc.
Beta: Pffft. Nope - it's all stinky raw meat here.
Notes: ... I feel like both Yamamoto and Gokudera are grossly OOC here. It's kinda creepy, like role reversal or Freaky Friday or something. And I'm really not too fond of how this one came out. Dx I SORRY, CORELLE! ;___;

Poisonous Thinking

For the first time in a very long time, Yamamoto Takeshi feels absolutely helpless, and he hates it.

He's holed up in a deserted warehouse behind a bullet-ridden concrete wall, fighting for his life, out of ammunition and separated from his sword and ring boxes. Slumped against the wall next to him is Gokudera, who still isn't conscious and is bleeding badly from a pair of bullet wounds, one in his abdomen, and a second matching one high in his chest. Yamamoto worries, checking to make sure his friend is still breathing every few moments. He isn't faring much better with a bullet hole of his own in his thigh; the makeshift bandage he tore from the tail of his dress shirt has already soaked through.

Yamamoto doesn't know where three of the other five men they brought with them to the meeting are; two of died when the gunfire broke out once the meeting turned sour. There's a sinking feeling in the back of Yamamoto's mind that the meeting with the smaller mafia family has always been intended to fail, no matter what they did.

He isn't sure what is worse – the fact that they've come out of this meeting with casualties and zero chance of success, or the fact that Tsuna is wholly unaware of the fact that two of his most-trusted guardians aren't there to protect him in case the gunfire spreads to Vongola turf. That thought makes Yamamoto's jaw tense nervously, especially since he knows he can't do anything about it in his current situation.

A pained cough next to him jolts him, and he turns with worried eyes to cast a glance over at Gokudera. The Italian is staring right back at him, eyes narrowed and glazed, but determined. Yamamoto puts his gun down, grits his teeth again and ignores his leg's protest as he shifts to move in front of Gokudera, hands moving to check bleeding wounds. Gokudera slaps his hands away.

“We–” The words are cut off by a hiss, and Gokudera shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. “–have to... warn the Tenth... in danger...”

“I know,” Yamamoto replies, placing a hand on Gokudera's shoulder. “They might have been after him all along.” He takes off his jacket and presses it against the bleeding wound in Gokudera's abdomen. Gokudera grunts in pain, but places a hand over Yamamoto's on the jacket, as if to say he could handle it himself.

“M-Mobile,” Gokudera says, shifting to the side. “Back pocket.”

Yamamoto wants to kick himself for not thinking of that sooner; his own mobile went missing as soon as the talks began going sour. He reaches down and pulls Gokudera's cell out of his back pocket by the charms dangling from it. His hands are slick with blood and shaking, making it difficult to flip the phone open and dial. Growling, he nearly drops the phone when Gokudera places a calming hand on his forearm.

Yamamoto distantly notes that it's odd, how their roles can reverse so quickly. Gokudera's usually the one panicking; the fact that he isn't makes Yamamoto worry even more. He pulls Tsuna's number out of the contacts list and calls it. The phone jumps directly to voicemail, and Yamamoto snaps the phone shut with a frustrated growl.

“It's off,” he mutters.

“G-Go to him,” Gokudera says around a fresh cigarette. Yamamoto hadn't even seen him light it. “I'll... hold them off.”

Yamamoto blinks and resists the urge to laugh. It's an inappropriate response, but he's panicking even further and he knows it. As serious as Gokudera tries to make himself look, it's obvious that he can barely stand; how the hell does he expect to fend off an enemy family?

“No. You're coming with me.”

Gokudera reaches forward and grabs the collar of Yamamoto's dress shirt, face twisting in pain as he tries to sit up further. “Don't be... an idiot! I'll slow... you down.”

“You're not staying here,” Yamamoto insists, but Gokudera's already shaking his head.

“D-Damn it, you... fucking idiot,” he hisses. “The Tenth is... first priority, y-you should know that... by now.”

And without saying another word, Gokudera takes as deep a breath as he can and pushes himself unsteadily on his feet, relying heavily on the wall for support, letting Yamamoto's blood-soaked suit jacket fall to the ground. When Yamamoto moves forward to lend him a hand, Gokudera glares at him and whips out several sticks of dynamite, daring him to stop him. Then he turns, edges towards the end of the wall – leaving a streak of blood every time his hand presses against the concrete – and lights the dynamite with his cigarette before tossing the live explosives around the wall.

A flash of light and a cloud of dust accompany the deep, chest-rattling boom of the explosion, and through the smoke, Yamamoto sees Gokudera smirking.

“Go.”

It's then that Yamamoto knows exactly what Gokudera is thinking. There aren't many things that make Yamamoto angry as hell, but damn it pisses him off. Has Gokudera not learned a goddamned thing in all these years?

“You damned fool,” he finally snaps. Gokudera's smirk is gone now, and he's blinking in shock at Yamamoto's outburst. “Didn't Dr. Shamal teach you better than that? Who's going to be Tsuna's right hand man if I leave you here to die?”

Gokudera winces, this time from a recollection of words he no doubt is hearing in his own mind. “We... don't have a choice, baseball freak.”

Without even blinking, he replies, “But I do, and I'm not going to let you throw your life away like that. Tsuna would say the same; he even said so to me, once.”

And with that, he grabs Gokudera by the waist and tosses him over his shoulder. Gokudera's cry of surprise and pain sends small stabs of guilt into Yamamoto's chest, but he doesn't let them stop him as he uses the smoke screen from Gokudera's dynamite attack to hobble towards the back door. Gokudera slumps against his shoulder along the way – a confirmation that the half-Italian boy's body has taken more damage than it needs to – and Yamamoto grits his teeth against the pain in his thigh. Once outside in the alleyway, he takes a moment to catch his breath and search for a way back.

There is a car towards the entrance of the alley; it's not Vongola, but Yamamoto has picked up a few new tricks in his time spent 'playing' Mafia. He knows it's not a game now – damn it, how could this be a game? – but hot-wiring is hot-wiring, and it will do. It's unlocked, thank the gods, and Yamamoto carefully deposits Gokudera in the passenger seat and leans the seat back before he limps around the car and gets in the driver's seat.

With a groan, Yamamoto realizes that his driving leg is the one that's been wounded. It hurts to switch between the gas and the brake, but he thinks he can make it as long as they don't wind up in a chase. He fiddles with the wires until the engine rumbles to life, and he pulls the black sedan out of the alleyway, driving as carefully as he can manage to avoid any unwanted attention. He doesn't breathe until he's made it six blocks without anyone obviously following him.

And then Yamamoto stops breathing again, when he looks over and sees that Gokudera's lips are turning blue.

“Gokudera!” he calls, hoping for a response and getting none. They're still at least a mile away from the Tenth's current residence, and the hospital is going to ask far too many questions about a gunshot victim. He pulls over, checking Gokudera's throat for a pulse and finding a weak, thready thrum under his fingers. “Come on, you can't do this to me now!”

Gokudera whimpers breathlessly, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids and back arching in agony. With a muttered curse, Yamamoto shifts the gears into drive again and speeds down the road, feeling like he's going only a kilometer an hour when he's going a hundred and ninety. Two blocks out, Yamamoto can see Tsuna's residence now, and it doesn't look like it's been touched by anyone else. He tries hard not to hope for the best, because as far as the day's luck is concerned, he shouldn't be surprised if they're all dead by nightfall.

He nearly crashes the vehicle into the main gate as he pulls up. The guards see him, take one look at Gokudera, and scramble to open the gates, one of them yelling into a phone. He doesn't wait to see what they have to say before he zips through the opening gate, scratching one of the side mirrors on the metal. Up ahead at the main estate building, there are several doctors coming out to meet them, a stretcher shortly behind them. Once he slams the brakes to a stop next to them, Yamamoto feels like he can almost relax; the doctors can take care of the rest of this.

He doesn't realize just how much blood he's also lost until he passes out.

It's been three days, and Gokudera's doing better, the doctors say. Yamamoto finally insists on being able to go see him as soon as he's allowed to use crutches instead of a wheelchair, though he's sure that Tsuna has already been several times.

Tsuna still hasn't forgiven himself for worrying them so much; his phone had died during a meeting when they'd tried to call. The young Vongola boss still hasn't come to terms with just how dangerous his guardians' job really is; he understands it just fine, but he can't stand seeing his friends hurt for his sake.

This time, Yamamoto can't help but agree with him. Gokudera looks pale and exhausted as he lays in the hospital bed, but is still breathing evenly, even if it's through a mask. And all Yamamoto can think about is how unnecessary it is that Gokudera is so badly injured. When Gokudera stirs, Yamamoto straightens, shifting his crutches so that they're easier to rest against.

“Hey,” he says with a smile.

“Go 'way. I don't want to talk to you.” Gokudera's voice is gravelly, but not weak.

Yamamoto knows exactly what Gokudera's talking about, and he laughs; some things don't change. “It couldn't be helped,” he replies, a mockery of sheepishness creeping into his tone. “I wasn't about to let you lay there and martyr yourself when we were able to get out just fine.”

“If the Tenth had been in real danger–” Gokudera begins, but Yamamoto cuts him off.

“It still doesn't justify you sacrificing yourself needlessly.” Yamamoto sighs. “You know, Gokudera, if you throw your life down now, who will be there to help me when... when that time comes? To prevent it from happening?”

Gokudera turns his head away from Yamamoto, and says nothing. He gets it, but it still isn't sinking in the way Yamamoto wishes it would.

“Keep it up, and you really will die one of these days,” Yamamoto says seriously. “If you want it that badly, it'll happen. It works the same way with sports – work hard enough at becoming a pro, and you'll eventually get there.”

“What would you know about it?” Gokudera snaps sullenly.

“I tried once, remember.”

Gokudera stiffened again, and Yamamoto shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed.

After a moment, “Your life isn't that worthless, Gokudera.”

A glare, a sigh, and Gokudera looks resigned. “I get it, okay?”

Yamamoto smiles. “Good. Because I didn't want to have to keep talking until this sushi goes bad.” He holds up a wrapped bento.

“What is it with you Japanese people and your raw fish?” Gokudera groans.

“Oh, Bianchi was here earlier while you were asleep – said something about making lunch later,” Yamamoto says, scratching his head in thought.

Gokudera's eyes go wide as saucers, and now he's looking at the bento of sushi hopefully. His stomach growls loudly, and Yamamoto laughs again, knowing that Gokudera actually does like his sushi, but still is too stubborn to admit it.

After lunch, Gokudera can barely stay awake; Yamamoto waves a farewell to Gokudera's grumbled one, and cleans up the mess while Gokudera drifts off. He takes one last look at his friend before he turns to leave.

Part of Yamamoto's spirit won't let itself feel relieved at the return to normalcy between the two of them, because he knows this won't be the last time Gokudera throws his life on the line for Tsuna. As he walks away from Gokudera's hospital room, Yamamoto can only hope that he will be there for damage control the next time Tsuna's self-proclaimed right-hand man does just that. It's what friends do, isn't it?

// fin.

---

(Next up on my list of prompts belongs to kellenanne: Bleach, IchiHitsu friendship, action/bludz AND NO SEX. Aw, darn. /sarcasm ♥ After I get sleep, that is. HURR, DAMN YOU LATE NIGHT DISTRACTIONS.)

fanfiction || La Mia Famiglia, La Nostra Famiglia. [KHR], drabble

2008-05-09T07:29:03Z

... WHY HULLOAH THAR ANOTHER NEW FANDOM. *shootsself* And this wasn't even one of the bunnies I had for this series.

Title: La Mia Famiglia, La Nostra Famiglia. (~~Behold, my atrocious, non-existent Italian!~~ WHICH HAS VERY graciously been corrected, thank you f_m_shorty~~!!!)
Rating: PG (one bad word? 8D)
Genre: angsty-drama? Meant to be gen (because that's what I write), but readers can interpret whatever they want (*coff*8059*coff* but ohgod i didn't mean to!).
Characters: Gokudera-centric with some Yamamoto, mentions of Tsuna.
Warnings: Uh... it's lame and retarded in every possible way?
Timeline: The 10-year gap, assuming it's after the Future Arc. (I swear that makes sense if you've read far enough.)
Beta: HAHAHA. Raw sewage alert.
Notes: POPPIN' THE KHR CHERRY LIKE A TARD. *blown up* And I know I can't write either Yamamoto or Gokudera believably to SAVE MY LIFE. Dx

La Mia Famiglia, La Nostra Famiglia

Gokudera, you can't protect everyone.

It doesn't matter how many times Yamamoto tells him; he's going to try anyway, because as Tsuna's right hand man, it's his family that he's protecting. They're all Vongola, all part of his responsibility. There isn't a chance in Hell that he'll let Tsuna put himself in that role; he knows how that story will end, because they've had the rare chance to see the future.

And it's tearing him down, piece by piece, each time he sees one of the Vongola – one of Tsuna's, one of his – beaten, broken, dead, knowing that some day it could be Tsuna's coffin he's designing. Each and every face that he recognizes in the morgues is another chunk out of the pillar he's worked so hard to build under Tsuna, the shield that Gokudera hopes will hold when the future they saw becomes the present.

Yet, Gokudera can't seem to let enough go to trust anyone else with his.

“Ours.”

A hand falls on his shoulder as he stands outside Ryohei's hospital room, and the hand is gentle and warm and he relaxes under it before he realizes that he's been spoken to – even more horrifying, he's voiced some of his own fears aloud. Tensing in embarrassment, he tries to shove Yamamoto's hand away, but he's lost so much sleep that he can't force Yamamoto to budge even an inch.

“Stay out of it, asshole. This is my problem.”

The hand tightens around his shoulder, and the world spins against his will. Vongola's current battles have taken so much out of him, and he hasn't even realized it.

“You're an idiot, then, if you believe that even for one second,” Yamamoto says evenly. “Do you really think you can single-handedly keep an eye on every single one of us, Hayato?”

“It's my job!”

Yamamoto spins Gokudera to face him, and Yamamoto's eyes are as serious and gentle as Gokudera's seen them be in a long while. “And it's mine to point out the fact that we're part of a family for a reason. What will happen to the family if you're not there to protect them?” Both hands are on Gokudera's shoulders now, giving them a firm shake. “These will break if you don't let me – us – take some of the burden.”

Gokudera blinks as the words finally sink in, then looks away, having nothing to say in reply. There's nothing he can say, because Yamamoto is absolutely right, even if he feels like he's in elementary school again, being told how to share.

Yamamoto releases him, looking a little worn out himself, and Gokudera feels sheepish thinking that he's the only one capable of holding the title of Tsuna's second. Of course. Tsuna has two hands. Sighing, he lets Yamamoto lead him to the limo waiting outside the Vongola's private hospital. He won't be able to let go of everything right away, but Yamamoto is still right.

It's the only way they're going to survive.

--

fin.