play time

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Yamamoto walked along a moonlit road, his wet sword dragging against the pavement as rain sprinkled down from the skies above, drenching him nothing but the coldness of solitude. His palms were slick from the blood and sweat from a previous battle—and the rain did nothing to wash away the aftermath of this—his—sins. Flicking his honey colored eyes upwards, he found himself alone, walking in the dead of night in the only town he's known long enough to call a home, though it never felt that way. A small, ironic smile erupted from his face and he licked his chapped lips as he continued walking, his feet heavy in his designer Italian boots.

They were a gift from Kyoko—the only person slightly involved in his crazy life who hadn't completely lost her mind—for Christmas, a little over a year ago. When he thought about it, that was the last time he seen her, all closed lipped smiles and auburn hair—she said she was serious about growing it out. She was the calmest one at the party—she was always the calmest one—it seemed that all of his friends were crazy long before anything happened. That was the last time he's seen them all together, laughing and wanting to be more than the little family they were pretending to be. Life wasn't a game anymore, it was real and harsh and dangerous—far more dangerous than he could ever expect it to be—but that was perfectly fine because that meant they were real, and that's all he wanted.

It was much easier, he realized, when everything was a game. A role-playing game with no real consequences and nothing at stake, when life was nothing but misadventures with a talking baby and pretty girls who followed his every move. There was nothing to worry about—nothing to think about other than perfecting his sword and working on his pitch. He felt the smile droop from his face, the rain melting it off along with the red that would have stained his sword as he dragged it along the ground beside him.

Now, it seemed that the game was either never a game and that baby was much more sinister than he ever believed for involving them in a world they had nothing to do with. They were kids, for fuck's sake. Barely fifteen and fighting for their lives—Yamamoto's biggest problem was not understanding that his life was even in danger in the first place. And from kids running around the world fighting villains that didn't make sense they grew into adults who have seen too much too quickly to ever be anything close to normal.

These were dark times, and they had been for a very long time.

He arrived at his destination and pushed the door open, knowing that it would never be locked. Before stepping in, he called in a very loud voice, "I'm home!" Instead of walking upstairs and stripping out of his sweaty-blood stained clothes, he walked towards the dojo and began to swing his sword around, slicing through the air almost carelessly, recklessly. Before he knew it, his movements were swift and out of control, his mouth releasing sounds he never heard himself make. They were harsh, loud, and ripping themselves from his throat with a ferocity he didn't know he possessed. Whipping his sword around, he found himself toppling down, falling to his knees without being able to stop himself from crashing into the floor, still screaming.

"You've got blood on your clothes," a voice said from behind him, his voice almost scolding.

"It's not mine, dad," Yamamoto promised, hanging his head down, not bothering to look at his father, who tsked in response.

"For a job?"

"For myself," he said, propping himself up on one knee, "It wasn't his fault—it's just the life he chose. The life I chose didn't let me care about that, though."

"Takeshi," his dad started, but he snapped his mouth shut when his son turned around, finally looking at him. He was sopping wet, literally dripping blood and water on the floor, and a rich, metallic scent radiated from his being. What kept him from talking was the pained look in a eyes, a strained, lost look that demanded to be felt.

"They killed them, dad. Tsuna, Kyoko, Lambo—they killed them all—and if they didn't then they just took them. Haru's been missing for weeks, and Ryohei is just...gone. They're all just gone." There was a rawness in his voice that he hadn't felt before, because before this was just a fun little game and now everything was too real too fast and he was not ready for it. He found himself alone—tired of pretending that he had a family when they were snatched from them before he could realize that they were never pretending. Left here with himself, the only thing he could think about was what went so wrong. Looking around, he found the room the walls shredded to pieces, the cloth that covered them tattered and torn. "What makes our sword style so powerful, dad?" he accidentally snapped.

"It evolves with each user—it grows," he said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. It never occurred to Yamamoto that his father had gotten close enough to touch him, but here he was. "A part of it is having faith that it'll work—you have to believe that it'll never fail you."

"Ironic," he said, rising from the ground and dusting his pants off, "the funny thing about believing in something is knowing that there's a lie somewhere in there. My growth taught me that—it taught my sword that too, didn't it?"

"That's not..."

"But it is!" he said, walking towards the door, "I can't afford to believe in lies anymore, dad. It didn't keep my friends alive and it won't keep me alive. I need something concrete, something solid." He dropped his sword by the door and walked out into the street, the rain beating down on him once more, not bothering to wash the blood off of his hands.