Pairing/Characters: Yamamoto/Hibari, Yamamoto/Squalo, Xanxus/Squalo (in that order of importance)
Disclaimer: Katekyō Hitman Reborn! and all its characters are property of Amano Akira. No copyright infringement is intended.
Written For: KHR Minibang (LJ Comm)
Notes: Many, many thanks to Ranty Rie for the helpful beta reading. Please note that this story explores the timeline leading into the Future Arc and does not follow the events in the Inheritance Arc. However, certain revelations from the Inheritance Arc are reflected in this story. Concrit is always welcome and appreciated.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It rains on the same day, every year: June 18th. No one comments on the strange weather phenomena, but then, Namimori is a town that knows how to mind its own business. Most of its residents never comment on any of the strange phenomena that plague their environment. And when they do notice little girls exploding and boys racing around in their underwear, they rarely dwell on it for long. Stranger still, people never seem to notice the smaller absurdities of Namimori-all except for Yamamoto Takeshi.
Only Takeshi seems to be aware that it rains on June 18th-every June 18th, at least since he grew aware of dates. Most people-especially temperamental foreigners with Italian accents and an interesting collection of explosives-believe he is incapable of noticing anything outside of baseball, but he notices quite a lot. He notices how heavy the rain is on June 18th. He notices that his father's knives are too sharp, even for a sushi chef. He notices that his mother stopped calling to check on him three years ago. He notices that Tsuna's infant home tutor never misses his target, even with a toy gun. He even notices Namimori Middle's Head of the Disciplinary Committee walking through the rain without concern.
Despite an entire bag's worth of rice to wash and a counter full of vegetables to slice awaiting him in the kitchen, Takeshi lounges on the front stoop of his father's restaurant. Rain pours off the side of the awning and splashes onto him when it hits the ground, but he does not mind. He enjoys the view the rain has to offer. Takeshi is willing to risk his father's ire to watch the boy as he strides over the sidewalk. The boy's expression seems to dare the rain to wet him. Apparently, the rain refuses to accept the dare, and the beads of water roll off him. Even the weather is terrified of Hibari Kyōya. Takeshi would not blame it, if half the rumors about Hibari are true-though he finds himself more intrigued than terrified.
Then again, Takeshi has difficulty imagining how anyone could fail to find Hibari intriguing, with that wild mop of hair and those narrowed blue eyes. His skin looks soft and inviting, but his expression foreboding. He walks with the purpose of a killer, leaving him nearly indistinguishable from Reborn, despite their age difference. Namimori Middle inhales and exhales on his command-even the teachers obey him. Never has Takeshi spoken to him before, and he does not think he will start today. Despite his intrigue, Takeshi is not ready to chat up the most dangerous boy in all Namimori. Perhaps after he wins a few more baseball games. For now, he will only risk punishment when his father discovers that he is not helping in the kitchen.
Hibari stops across from Takezushi and peers at Takeshi. Another youth, his black hair styled into a large pompadour, approaches Hibari. After brief exchange, the youth with the pompadour crosses the street, heading towards Takeshi. He clings to a large black umbrella that barely manages to keep him dry. "Are you the boy who tried to kill himself last quarter?" he asks when he reaches Takezushi's entrance.
Takeshi frowns. He does not like to think about that. It remains a raw spot in his life, a gaping wound barely healed over. Making friends with Tsuna and all the other interesting people he recently met over the summer only applied a mild balm to Takeshi's spirit. But he will not lie about it. "I am," he says.
The youth with the pompadour nods. "The Chairman wanted me to inform you that if you commit suicide on school property, he will bite you to death. Your body would leave a nasty stain on the concrete and distract students from their proper place."
Perhaps Takeshi healed more than he thought. The other boy's words do not sting as they would have a month ago. Even though it is all just a game, playing Mafia with Tsuna seems to have made Takeshi stronger in every sense of the word. His confidence returned and his batting average has even started to climb again. "I'll be sure to jump off a building that's not on school property next time," he replies, though he has no intention of allowing a next time to happen.
"That's the thing. All Namimori belongs to the Chairman," the boy with the pompadour explains, his tone suggesting Takeshi an idiot for not knowing this already. "He does not like it when discipline is disrupted by the unauthorized deaths of Namimori Middle students."
"But if I'm already dead, how would he bite me to death?"
The boy looks startled by the question and walks across the street to confer with Hibari. He returns after a few moments and announces, "The Chairman says for you to stop troubling him with logic. If you kill yourself, he will take matters into his own hands, and you will regret it."
Takeshi laughs. He cannot help himself. He has never has such an absurd conversation in his life-and he includes the conversations with Lambo where he tried to convince the boy that street lamps did not, in fact, summon forth the monsters under the bed. "Right. So, if I die, he'll kill me. Got it."
Apparently satisfied by Takeshi's response, the boy with the pompadour nods and returns to following Hibari at a distance. The rain blows beneath the umbrella and soaks him. His pompadour quickly wilts. Yet, the rain continues to roll off the umbrella-less Hibari.
"What an interesting guy," Takeshi murmurs and continues to watch Hibari walk the rain-drenched sidewalks of Namimori until his father shouts at him to help in the kitchen.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It rains again on June 18th, as it always does. Takeshi sits outside to admire it. He feels a connection to the rain now, perhaps due to his new Rain Ring. He played a strange, violent game to earn it. Oddly exhilarating, but the ending still keeps him up at nights. He wonders how he might feel if Squalo had not turned up alive. He wonders if he would be standing on the roof of a tall building right now, weighed down with the burden of Squalo's life. Takeshi immediately regrets even considering such a thought.
As if sensing his mental rebellion, Hibari approaches Takezushi. He strides down the sidewalk, sending the few people walking in the rain fleeing to the other side of the road. The citizens of Namimori know their place, and their place is not around Hibari. The rain still seems to roll off him, rather than soak in. Some distance behind Hibari, Kusakabe walks along, his pompadour long since plastered to the front of his face by rain that snuck in under his black umbrella.
"You're getting wet," Takeshi calls out to Hibari, even though he is not. It is something to say, since "good afternoon" seems an inappropriately friendly greeting for a fierce boy like Hibari.
Hibari glances at him without turning his head and yawns as he walks. He does not reply, which disappoints Takeshi. Hibari is not tall like Takeshi or muscular like Sasagawa Ryōhei, yet his lithe form crackles with power. Though Hibari and Xanxus did not fight, Takeshi cannot decide who would win. Hibari, of all Tsuna's new Guardians, fights like an adult. His youth does not fetter him, and he does not flinch before death. His predatory nature reminds Takeshi of Squalo.
"Thanks for all your hard work, senpai," Takeshi calls out. Why he keeps trying to get Hibari's attention, he cannot quite explain, beyond that he would not mind the opportunity to stare at Hibari's delicate features a little longer.
Hibari pauses and glances at him, eyes narrowed. "I fought because I wanted to, not because I was helping you," he replies, his flat tone as dangerous as one of Takeshi's father's knives.
"Oh, well, we all fought because we wanted to. Even Lambo." Takeshi frowns. While Lambo's twenty-five-year-old self had done quite well, thinking of what Levi-A-Than had done to the five-year-old Lambo still angered Yamamoto. Though he bore no grudge against Squalo, he could not forgive Levi. He cared little for his own injuries, but Lambo was just a child. Had Levi been eaten by a shark, Takeshi would have felt nothing but satisfaction. That realization frightens him. He did not realize he could be so ruthless.
"I do not care what that weird cow thing does." Hibari starts to walk away.
"Hey. Are you hungry?"
Hibari pauses again. Halfway down the block, Kusakabe stands in the rain, maintaining a respectful distance. Such a distant relationship does not seem much like a friendship in Takeshi's opinion. He would not like something like that. He likes to be up close and personal with people.
"If you're hungry, my father runs a sushi restaurant," Takeshi explains. "We're slow right now. I'm sure he'd let me feed you, if you wanted."
Hibari's sharp gaze flicks away from Takeshi to glance at the sign of his father's restaurant, then flicks back to Takeshi, gaze drilling into him with all the intensity of a hurricane-force wind. "I like very expensive sushi."
"Oh, that's no problem. We have the very best here." Takeshi grins. "I'll make it for you myself." His father does need to know if he snitches some fatty tuna to make nigiri for the prettiest boy in all Namimori. His father is busy serving what few customers they have in the restaurant, since he sent the other servers home due to slow business.
"I also like chocolate."
Takeshi blinks. "On your sushi?"
"For dessert." Hibari apparently shares information in the same tone most reserve for threats.
"Oh! Okay. I think I have some Hershey's Kisses. Those are my favorites."
"That will be sufficient."
Takeshi beams. Hibari acts as if his acceptance of Takeshi's offer is a favor. Takeshi likes the presumption and the arrogance. His father tells him that courtesy should be a common thing, so discourtesy strikes Takeshi as a rare quality. He likes rare qualities. Takeshi leads Hibari inside, satisfied that nothing about Hibari is ordinary.
Takeshi's father nods to Takeshi when he walks in. His gaze lingers over Hibari for a moment before turning back to the only two customers in the restaurant. Takeshi leads Hibari into the kitchen, suspecting that his father wonders why Takeshi always brings boys over, but never any girls. If his father does not already wonder why Takeshi never mentions the pretty girls in his class or pins posters of famous beauties to his wall, he will soon. Takeshi hopes his father never asks. His feelings are too naked to share with his own father.
Hibari sits at the kitchen table without being asked. "The best sushi," he says.
"Don't worry. I told you, we only do the best here." Takeshi takes out the ingredients he needs from the icebox, then starts slicing the fatty tuna. His cuts are not perfect, as his father's always are, but they are acceptable. He makes a whole platter of tuna nigiri, then adds several shrimp and sweet egg nigiri, along with a couple of cucumber maki rolls. Hibari, to his surprise, waits without complaint, though he yawns frequently and stares out the window at the pouring rain.
Once the sushi is ready, Takeshi pours two cups of hot green tea and places the platter before Hibari. He sits across from Hibari and awaits judgment. Hibari offers no complaints or threats, instead shoving sushi into his mouth at an alarming rate. Takeshi suspects this is likely the highest compliment Hibari will ever offer anyone. He smiles and eats a few pieces, leaving the majority to Hibari. It is his best work yet.
When Hibari finishes the nigiri, he fixes his sharp gaze on Takeshi. "I want the chocolate now."
"Wow, you have an appetite like Lambo." Takeshi grins and stands, his nerves tingling. He is entering dangerous territory, but this is the sort of territory he has learned to navigate best. "They're upstairs. Follow me."
Hibari scowls, but he follows Takeshi upstairs. As Takeshi makes his way to his room, he reflects that the comparison of Lambo to Hibari does not seem as ridiculous as first supposed. There is something rather childlike about Hibari. He is used to getting his way and doing as he pleases. While he lacks Lambo's sweetness and social nature, he possesses the same sort of innocence-the innocence of someone who views life as simple. Unlike Lambo, however, Hibari seems incapable of crying. Takeshi wonders if Hibari ever cried, even as a child. He imagines a small boy with terrible tantrums that left his playroom in ruins. How did Hibari's mother react to such a child? Did she stay or did she leave? Even though Takeshi never threw a tantrum in his life, his mother had still left. Perhaps if he had, she might have stayed.
Takeshi closes the door behind Hibari and rummages around in his desk drawers for the Hershey's Kisses. Behind him, Hibari glares. "Hurry up," he demands.
"Found them," Takeshi announces, holding out the bag. His heart races, and his ears grow warm.
Just as Hibari reaches for the bag, Takeshi snatches it back and steps in. It takes all his athletic reflexes to move fast enough to plant a kiss on Hibari's lips. They feel soft against his and taste vaguely of tuna. Takeshi grins as a strange warmth flashes through him. Even when Hibari's tonfa slams into his stomach, Takeshi cannot stop grinning.
"What did you do that for?" Hibari asks, touching his lips. He seems confused and more childlike than ever.
Takeshi coughs and ignores the sharp pain in his belly. He holds up a single Hershey's Kiss. "A kiss for a kiss," he gasps.
Hibari scowls and cracks his tonfa over Takeshi's head. Black stars burst across Takeshi's vision, and he wakes an hour later to find dried blood on his forehead. When he blearily looks around, he discovers the bag of Hershey's Kisses is gone. He smiles, despite the ringing pain in his skull, and wonders if Hibari will ever repay him.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
A year after defeating the Varia, Tsuna inherited the Vongola and tasked his Guardians with the duty to cleanse the Vongola of corruption, to remind the Vongola that they were built to protect the innocent. A duty he tasked them over the corpses of the Ninth and his Guardians.
Schnitten Brabanters's grave looks old, despite standing for only a year. The rain ages the stone, wearing away all identifying marks. Yamamoto cannot read Brabanters's name any longer, though he remembers the large man with the scarred face as clearly as if he were still alive. Yamamoto frowns. He had only known the Ninth's Rain Guardian for a year, and he felt as though he had not even learned half of what Brabanters knew. He thought there would be plenty of time for Brabanters to show him how the Mafia world worked. But life never works out the way Yamamoto wants it to. He hefts his bat and sets the flowers he brought on the grave. They looked bright under the endless rain of June 18th. The water does not dampen their white petals.
Only on this day, on the day it always rains, does Yamamoto feel brave enough to visit Brabanters's grave. Whenever a room goes quiet, he can still hear Brabanters's screams. Sometimes, when he drifts between sleep and wakefulness, he feels the heat of the fire, the silent fire, which killed so many: the Ninth, his Guardians, and even the unseen assassins themselves. Forcing others to watch them burn seemed yet another cruelty of those mysterious assassins. Lambo still screams when he sees fire, even on television. Yamamoto sometimes wishes the assassins had survived, so he could kill them himself for all the suffering they wrought.
The rain conquers the fire in Yamamoto's head. He wonders when he started thinking of himself by his family name and sighs. He is only sixteen, yet feels as if he were sixty. Yamamoto swings his bat through the rain and wonders how old Brabanters was before he died. Certainly not old enough to die-but then, who is?
The loss of the Ninth led Yamamoto to play baseball with more fervor than ever. His team has been doing quite well. Well enough that Squalo sent Yamamoto a DVD of one of his Sword Emperor battles, showing off his sword skills. The images are alluring, but baseball seems more important. And safer. In baseball, no one has to watch people die.
Gokudera approaches him in the rain, holding his umbrella. Instead of a sharp quip about Yamamoto's lack of umbrella, Gokudera only offers Yamamoto a somber glance. He must have come from Coyote Nougat's grave. Perhaps he, too, only feels comfortable visiting the graves of those who burned in the rain. Perhaps he feels the same about the Ninth Storm Guardian as Yamamoto does Brabanters.
"Do you think it's supposed to be like this?" Gokudera asked, staring out at the sea of tombstones. "The Tenth becoming Boss like that? After all those-" He cut himself off.
"No," was all Yamamoto could say.
Gokudera nods, then steels his expression. He looks off behind Yamamoto and nods his head. "Look. It's Hibari. Think he's here to pay his respects, too?"
Yamamoto turns and sees Hibari standing on a small hill, by a tree, gazing at his hands. He does not seem wet, though the rain continues to drown the graveyard. In his hands, something small, wet, and furry trembles.
"No." Yamamoto smiles. "He's here to take care of some small animal. He likes them, I think."
"Are you sure he's not trying to eat it?"
Hibari places the small, furry thing on a branch and walks away. He has not spoken to Yamamoto since the silent fire, when he burst open the door to set Tsuna's Guardians free before they, too, burned. Perhaps Hibari considers Yamamoto as much a failure as he does himself. A failure who could not save the Ninth and his Guardians. A failure whose Rain powers were not strong enough to quench the fire.
"I'm going to check on the Tenth." Gokudera starts to walk away. "Don't follow me, I don't want anyone to think we're friends."
Normally, Yamamoto would consider this Gokudera's invitation to do just the opposite, but he just nods his farewell, then heads after Hibari. He watches as Hibari walks through the graveyard, unaffected by the rain and the resting places of the dead. Even the silent fire seems to have left little impact on him. He is as he always was: untouched.
Which makes Yamamoto want to touch him all the more.
Yamamoto dreams of Hibari at night. He dreams of Hibari returning to his bedroom, with chocolate kisses in his pockets. He dreams of miles of smooth skin and rippling muscles underneath his hands. He dreams of Hibari's lips trailing over his chest, his stomach, all the way down to his aching cock. He dreams of catching a cloud. He dreams of Hibari stopping and turning around to look at him.
Hibari pauses by Visconti's neglected tombstone. The Ninth's Cloud Guardian did not take in Hibari as the others took in their successors. Visconti remained as aloof and uncaring as Hibari himself, watching through his sunglasses, but never joining. Even in death, his tombstone remains apart, and no flowers adorn his grave. Yamamoto wonders if it will be the same for Tsuna's generation, when they die. Being the Cloud Guardian seems lonely.
"I dislike grouping." Hibari glances back, his expression dark. "Come any closer, and I will bite you to death."
Yamamoto thinks of a thousand things he should say and two thousand things he should do, but he only smiles. He stands by the Ninth Cloud Guardian's grave and watches Hibari recede into the distance. Hibari does not look back.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
It is June 18th in Italy, the day after Tsuna's wedding to Sasagawa Kyōko at his Italian villa. Rain drums against the windows as the remainders of his wedding party prepare for departure-all except Yamamoto, who paces the study. It should soothe him to know that even in Italy, it rains on June 18th, but his mind is not on the rain.
Two years worth of Squalo's DVDs, showing off his one hundred and one battles, sit in a box, waiting to be returned. Yamamoto paces the Italian villa's study, not looking at the box of DVDs, yet seeing them all the same. He should return them, but watching them, especially the later ones, thrills him too much. There is power and beauty in all of Squalo's moves, and part of Yamamoto craves this.
That is not all Yamamoto craves, however. A crisp white letter accepting him into the Yomiuri Giants remains in his pocket, engaged in a silent war with that box of DVDs for Yamamoto's devotion. Yamamoto finally reached his dream, a dream he has held since childhood, when his mother would take him to baseball games and recount tales of the star players in a worshipful tone. If he accepts that letter, he will become everything he spent his entire life training to be: a star baseball player. He could be a legend at only eighteen.
Yet, seeing Squalo, the only member of the Varia who bothered to attend Tsuna's wedding, reminded Yamamoto of other dreams. Squalo arrived in an expensive white suit that made him seem all the more deadly and beautiful. He sat in the cathedral's pews, reminding Yamamoto of those DVDs that thrilled him deeper than an orgasm. When Tsuna left last night, his beautiful bride on his arm, Yamamoto cheered with the rest, though all he thought of was his acceptance letter from the Yomiuri Giants and the unspoken invitation in Squalo's gray eyes.
Yamamoto tires of pacing. He sits in the chair closest to the window and gazes out. He cannot see very far across the grounds of Tsuna's Italian villa, as rain obscures the garden. The water distorts the view through the glass. Rain is a watery veil almost as thorough as one of Rokudō Mukuro's illusions.
The sound of footsteps causes Yamamoto to look behind him. Hibari stands in the doorway with a petulant scowl. Likely, Hibari only attended the wedding to question Tsuna about the new box weapons that emerged in Mafia combat over the last year. He had spent most of his time avoiding everyone. Until this moment, Hibari did not cast Yamamoto a single glance.
"I am leaving," Hibari announces. Though taller and dressed like a man, he still looks like a boy to Yamamoto, untouched and unspoiled. It is inexplicable how a bloodthirsty creature like Hibari radiates innocence to Yamamoto. No one else sees it. Everyone else thinks Hibari is the oldest Guardian, the most mature, the fiercest, but Yamamoto sees a child glittering in Hibari's eyes. A dangerous child, but a child nonetheless.
Yamamoto smiles. The smiles come more easily than ever, now that they are all fake. "Yeah? Where are you going this time?"
"None of your business."
"Then why tell me you're leaving?"
Hibari's eyebrow twitched, and his eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask common sense questions? I despise common sense."
Yamamoto's smile feels more real now. Somehow, Hibari has that power, an anomaly amongst his many other, more brutal, powers. They are Family now, even though Hibari does as he pleases and rarely visits them. Something binds them all, transcending space and time. Yamamoto appreciates those bonds, especially the ones between Rain and Cloud. Without clouds, there can be no rain.
"Hmph." Hibari eyes him. "You have been boring lately."
"Oh. Sorry about that."
Hibari turns on his heel. "I will be waiting for you to become interesting again. Perhaps you should train more with the shark."
"Squalo?" Yamamoto glances out the rain-drenched window and thinks of the box of Sword Emperor DVDs sitting on the desk. Hibari's simple answer clears his indecision. "Maybe I will." Maybe if he were stronger, people would not die before his eyes. Maybe then his rain could quench the silent, killing flames.
"I will return then." Hibari walks away.
As Hibari's footsteps recede down the hall, Yamamoto fishes his acceptance letter from his coat pocket. Yamamoto studies it for a long moment, then tears it to shreds and dumps it in the trash. After glancing out of the terrace's glass doors at the rain, he picks up the box of Sword Emperor DVDs and heads out to find Squalo.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
"Voooiii!" Squalo screams and thrusts his sword in Yamamoto's direction. "You're not paying attention again!"
Yamamoto blocks the attack, though only barely. "Ha ha. Guess I'm not. Sorry." He smiles, and Shigure Kintoki shifts back to a shinai. He dumps himself on the bench of Squalo's personal fencing hall and stares down at Shigure Kintoki. A part of him he cannot shake wishes it were a baseball bat. "Can't we take a break?"
"A break!" Squalo looks offended as he marches towards him. "You fucking asshole! You're still fucking making stupid fucking mistakes and fucking around, when you should fucking be paying fucking attention to your fucking swordwork!"
Yamamoto marvels at the amount of times Squalo can cram the word "fucking" into a single sentence. Not quite as many as Xanxus, but still impressive.
"We have enemies all over the fucking place, crawling around, trying to fucking destroy the Vongola, and you want to take a fucking break!"
"Yeah. And a shower. And then have some dinner." Yamamoto grins, then heads up to the room he shares with Squalo. As he sets his things down, he marvels over how easy it was to move into the Varia's mansion and into Squalo's bed. Everything is easy with Squalo, except the training.
Yamamoto takes a long, hot shower. He thinks of the Yomiuri Giants. He thinks of the smell of grass. He thinks of the whistle of baseballs sailing towards him. He thinks of Brabanters standing in the rain, telling Yamamoto that the Rain Guardian does not worry about what he does-he simply does it. He thinks of Brabanters encapsulated by fire, screaming in agony. Yamamoto wonders if Brabanters worried about anything then, in that moment. These thoughts are what make training with the sword so hard.
When he emerges, wrapped in towels, Squalo has dinner on the small table by the television. Yamamoto sits down to eat. "Itadakimasu!" he exclaims, while Squalo rolls his eyes and says grace. The devoted Catholicism of the Italian Mafiosi still astounds Yamamoto, though he does not comment on it aloud. Religion in Japan is as subtle as Rokudō Mukuro's illusions, but Italians flaunt theirs the same way one would an expensive car. Yamamoto waits for Squalo to finish praying before eating.
"You still have a long way to go," Squalo informs him after dinner. He drags Yamamoto off his chair and shoves him onto the bed.
"You always say that," Yamamoto says with a laugh as Squalo straddles him. "I've been here a year, and you say it every time."
Squalo strips him of his towel and grips Yamamoto's cock with his flesh hand. "Because it's true!"
Yamamoto moans and says no more, hardening beneath Squalo's touch. It never takes long for him to respond to Squalo's rather direct seduction techniques. He soon rolls over, dumping Squalo on his back, and strips Squalo's trousers off. By the time Squalo tosses the bottle of lubricant at him, all he can think about is how badly he wants to bury himself inside the slender form beneath him.
Squalo cries out, loud as ever, when Yamamoto enters him. Neither of them last very long when they are like this, but it never matters. The orgasms are intense enough to make up for the brief duration, intense enough that Yamamoto can overlook when Squalo shouts Xanxus's name at climax. After they catch their breath, Squalo pounces him for a second round. When that, too, finishes, Squalo snuggles down by his side, prepared for sleep.
Raindrops drum on the window, rhythmic and soothing, with the promise of wet grass and sidewalk puddles in the morning. Yamamoto breathes in the dark, waiting for sleep. Loose strands of Squalo's long hair tickle his nose, and he brushes them aside, only for them to tickle his nose again a moment later. As beautiful as that silver hair looks spread out on the pillows, it becomes a real nuisance when attempting sleep. Squalo's hair gets everywhere, like sand at the beach. Yamamoto brushes it aside again, rougher than before.
Squalo groans and raises his head. His great mane of hair shimmers from the scattered lights from outside, his face ghostly in the dark. "Why're you still awake?" he mumbles, shifting a bit, his bare legs rubbing against Yamamoto's beneath the covers.
"Can't sleep." As if that explains everything.
Squalo yawns. "How many times I gotta fuck you before you sleep?" His voice fades at the end, and his head droops.
"Just the two." Yamamoto smoothes Squalo's hair, lulling him back to resting his head on Yamamoto's chest. "That's all I need."
"Should sleep," Squalo murmured, stroking Yamamoto's chest absently. "More training tomorrow."
Yamamoto tilts his head back and stares out the window at the night rain. He wonders if it had rained all day or not-he was so busy training, he had not noticed the weather. "Hey, do you know what day it is?"
"Mrmph. June 18th."
"Oh." Yamamoto frowns. "I wonder what Hibari's up to." He had not seen Hibari in a year-not since the day after Tsuna's wedding.
Squalo lifts his head. "You wish you were with Hibari?"
Yamamoto shifts his gaze back to Squalo. He can feel the other man's tension against his own body.
"Don't you wish you were with Xanxus? I mean, you call his name every time we have sex."
Squalo scowls and looks away. "The Boss likes his women almost as much as he likes his booze."
"Hibari doesn't like anyone."
Squalo rests his head on Yamamoto's chest again. His hair tickles Yamamoto's nose again. "We do all right together, you and me."
"Yeah, we do." Yamamoto stares back out the window. "No use worrying about what neither of us can have."
When Yamamoto sleeps, he dreams of Hibari sleeping nestled against him, his head resting on Yamamoto's chest, his wild black hair tickling Yamamoto's nose.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
As the rain cascades over the burning building, Yamamoto realizes it must be after midnight now. June 18th's rain has just saved his life. He stands up, still smelling the smoke through the water. Beside him, Squalo rises as well. Blood still trickles down Squalo's forehead, and his eyes are glass. Yamamoto takes him by his hand-his sword hand, unyielding when grasped-and leads him away.
Rain splatters Yamamoto's face, stinging his chin. He touches his chin, and his fingers come away covered in blood. He does not remember the priest cutting him during the fury of their fight, yet it happened all the same.
Squalo leans against him. "Voooiii." His voice sounds weak-almost a normal speaking tone. "Lucky for the rain." He speaks in Italian, and Yamamoto strains to understand the foreign words. He strokes Squalo's back in answer, his fingers tangling in wet hair.
Yamamoto glances back at their mark's home. The fire will not spread, and the gas tank will not explode. He is grateful for this, after the damage they took. The priest was stronger than he had any right to be. Fighting him made Squalo sloppy, nervous. Squalo is Catholic at his core and useless against a priest, even one who does business with the Mafia. He was never meant to kill the priest-Xanxus always intended it to be Yamamoto.
Yamamoto knows that Xanxus assigned this hit to test his mettle. Xanxus wants to see if he can actually kill. If he grew up from the soft little boy who risked his own life to save Squalo. Yamamoto does not know if he would have passed the test if not for the fire. Fire changes Yamamoto, be it from the priest's salamander box weapon or memories of the silent fire that killed the Ninth and his Guardians. Fire makes it easier for Yamamoto's blade to slide into vital organs, especially with the sight of fresh blood on Squalo's face. He wonders if the priest's death will please Xanxus, but he doubts it. Xanxus will never be satisfied with anything less than everything.
Squalo still breathes, but he also bleeds. He sleeps, though he remains on his feet. Yamamoto picks him up, cradling him like a bride, and carries him back to their car. Squalo weighs little, and Yamamoto wonders how a man made of skin and bone can be so strong. After setting him down, Yamamoto cuts his jacket to shreds and uses it to bind Squalo's head. The drive back to the Varia's mansion passes quickly, though it takes two hours to reach it. Squalo sleeps the entire time, muttering about his aunt's knitting and feeding the chinchillas. So long as he keeps talking, Yamamoto knows he will be all right. If Squalo were ever to fall silent, Yamamoto would worry.
When Yamamoto returns to the mansion, he heads straight to the clinic they set up on the first floor. The cool air makes his chin prickle with pain again. He gently sets Squalo down on one of the beds, then pages Lussuria. Squalo softly moans and continues to babble about marinara sauce in his hair. Squalo appears paler than ever on the bed's white sheets, with spatters of red blood for contrast. Yamamoto smiles and runs his fingers through Squalo's silky hair. He will likely never get another chance to see Squalo so vulnerable.
A shadow blocks the light, and Yamamoto looks up. Instead of Lussuria, Xanxus stands there, fully dressed, his eyes narrowed to red pinpricks. He steps into the room, clenching his fists, his gaze jerking between Yamamoto and Squalo. Yamamoto feels oddly guilty and withdraws his hand from Squalo.
"The priest wounded him-"
"No shit." Xanxus sneers and tilts his head back to glare at Yamamoto. Even Hibari's fierceness cannot compare to the rage that smolders in Xanxus's eyes. And there is no childlike purity or simplicity to be found in Xanxus. "So Lussuria was right. You two faggots are fucking."
Yamamoto says nothing. He promised Squalo he would keep their relationship a secret. He has no shame in what he is, but Squalo does. He honors Squalo's wishes and merely returns Xanxus's glare with an even stare. He wonders why Xanxus cares whether he and Squalo are sleeping together. Lussuria is certainly more obvious about his sexuality than either of them.
Xanxus glances down at the sleeping Squalo. "Piece of shit." He turns on his heel and storms out, knocking the newly arrived Lussuria over.
There are only a few people in the world that Yamamoto cannot stand, and Xanxus is one of them. He reminds Yamamoto too much of fire, and Yamamoto hates fire. What Squalo sees in him, Yamamoto will never understand.
Lussuria stitches Yamamoto's chin closed, refusing to use his box, saying he needs to save that energy to "rescue Squalo's beautiful face." When Lussuria shoves him out of the clinic to heal Squalo, Yamamoto heads to the room he shares with Squalo. The mirror hanging by the doorway shows Yamamoto his stitched chin in the mirror. Lussuria did a poor job; Yamamoto will likely scar.
"You killed the priest alone?"
The familiar voice sends a shiver down Yamamoto's spine. He turns around and finds Hibari standing in the doorway, with two of his men. Hibari snaps his fingers, and his men both disappear down the hallway. Hibari steps in, uninvited, as unconcerned by courtesy as ever. "That is what the Varia boss tells me," Hibari continues. "That you killed the priest without the shark's help."
"Squalo beat most of the priest's underlings before I even got through the door. He put up a good fight, but it was a priest, you know. It put him off guard, so he was wounded, and-"
"Do not be modest. It makes me want to bite you to death."
Yamamoto smiles. "Yeah, I killed the priest alone."
"The priest was strong." Hibari circles Yamamoto like a hunting cat, but he stares instead at Squalo's room. His gaze flicks over the messy bed, the collection of swords hanging on the racks, the open closet filled with Varia leather suits and Vongola Armani suits, the baseball video games stacked by the Nintendo Wii, the baseball bat leaning against the table where Squalo keeps his spare hands.
"Yes," Yamamoto says. Even here, in the room he shares with Squalo, with the bed he fucks Squalo on nearly every night, he cannot take his eyes off Hibari. Hibari's messy hair covers parts of his face, practically begging to be brushed out of the way Yamamoto is twenty now, a full adult by Japanese law, though he was an adult long before that. Yet, Hibari reduces him to a teenage boy, watching without touching, hungering without tasting.
Hibari finally glances at him. "I came here to defeat the priest myself and take his box. I did not expect you to be able to beat him alone." He pauses and gazes up at Yamamoto. "How did you defeat him?"
Yamamoto smiles and holds up his own Vongola box that Tsuna sent him. "Jirō. He held my swords for me. He's a good dog."
"I see. The shark has made you stronger." Hibari's eyes glitter. "You have grown more interesting."
Yamamoto takes a step forward, insanely wondering if Squalo ate all the Hershey's kisses, and Hibari takes a step back. He looks almost offended by Yamamoto's attempt to draw closer. He glances around the room, the room that bears the signs of Yamamoto and Squalo both, their lives intertwined. A room that bears no sign of Yamamoto's feelings for Hibari.
"Do you know what they call a shark's young?" Hibari asks as he walks out. "They call them 'pups.'"
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
The empty bag of Hershey's Kisses crinkles as Yamamoto throws it in the wastebasket. He stares into the contents of his trash, glumly observing the wrinkled plastic settled amongst his old school papers. It has been so long since he was in school. So long since he gave a Hershey's Kiss to the first boy who ever captured his imagination.
The cold spatter of rain interrupts his reverie. Yamamoto quickly closes his window and takes one last look around his old room. He wonders if Tsuna or Gokudera would want any of his old things, but then he realizes they have their own junk. All of them have outgrown their childhood. Yamamoto hefts his suitcase and walks out, down the stairs, and into his father's kitchen. It is June 18th, and his visit home is at its end.
Yamamoto's father looks up and smiles. "Leaving already?"
Yamamoto nods and sets the suitcase by the table and steps up to the counter. He starts washing a fresh batch of rice and glances up at the kitchen window. The rain pours outside, drenching Namimori. Yamamoto wonders if Hibari is out there somewhere, repelling the rain with his mystifying abilities. Yamamoto wishes he had a bag of Hershey's Kisses. He wishes Hibari repaid him with real kisses for the bag of chocolates he took when they were still teenagers. He wishes Hibari were part of his life.
"Are you ever going to marry?" Yamamoto's father looks almost desperate. Enough wrinkles line his face to make him appear old now, and Yamamoto cannot recall when that happened. "Give your old man some grandchildren?"
Yamamoto smiles, but he does not answer. He never did have that conversation about his sexual preferences with his father. He realizes he does not need to, for his lack of an answer is enough. His father nods and looks down, visibly disappointed, but accepting. Yamamoto hooks an arm around his father's shoulders. "See you, Pops. Take a few days off, let the other guys work. You deserve a vacation, too."
His father chases him out with promises of going on holiday to Italy soon, but Yamamoto knows his old man well enough to know that his father is as likely to take a vacation as Squalo is to sell his sword hand for scrap metal and retire to a monastery. The old man will die working, Yamamoto knows this, though he does not like to think about it. He likes to pretend his father will never grow old enough to die.
As he waits for the cab, he sits on the front stoop of his father's restaurant, just as he had as a teenager. Instead of watching the rain fall, Yamamoto pulls out his mobile phone and checks his messages. All are from Squalo, demanding to know when he will return home. Eighteen text messages in Italian, just so he could use all capitals. Thirty-two voice messages in Japanese, all loud enough to make Yamamoto's ears ring, even at the lowest volume setting. Yamamoto smiles. At least someone in the world in misses him.
Yamamoto pockets the mobile and thinks of Squalo. He does not know if all the attention means Squalo loves him. He does not know if his devoted apprenticeship means he loves Squalo. He does not know what it means when the sex is over and they hold each other as they sleep. He does not even know if it matters. He is with Squalo, and Squalo is with him. If things were different, if Hibari were not so distant, and if Xanxus were not so heterosexual, then it might matter. But things are not different.
The cab pulls up, and Yamamoto stands up. As he climbs into the cab, he sees Hibari walking down the sidewalk, water rolling off his black suit-the rain still does not dare to wet him. The cab pulls out before Yamamoto can think to tell it to stop, and he sits by the window, staring out at Hibari.
Hibari does not turn to watch the cab drive past.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Things have changed. Yamamoto does not know exactly when, but when he leaves on missions now, he receives fewer messages from Squalo. This time, he received none. The mission was a special one, a request from Tsuna, sending Yamamoto to Rome to investigate Millefiore activity. When he returns to the place he now calls home, June 18th's rain drenches the Varia's mansion. He walks inside, dripping water, expecting to hear Squalo screaming at Bel for putting razor blades in the soap again, but all is quiet.
Yamamoto heads up to the room he shares with Squalo, but their room is empty. Yamamoto sets his bag down and frowns. He sits on the bed to take off his shoes and finds the bed cold and made. His baseball bat has slipped out of its corner and fallen on the floor. Yamamoto sets it back in its place. He walks quietly out of the room, his mind strangely empty of thought. His feet lead him up to the third floor, to Xanxus's bedroom. Yamamoto does not think about why. He simply feels that this is where he will find Squalo. The same instinct that guides his bat and his sword guides him here.
Xanxus's door lays partially open. His grunts fill the hall, along with the sound of flesh sliding against flesh. Yamamoto quietly tiptoes to the door in his stocking feet and peers in. When he sees Squalo riding Xanxus, his mind goes entirely numb. Xanxus has Squalo gagged and handcuffed, but Squalo does not seem to mind. He rocks up and down over Xanxus's hips, his head slightly turned to reveal his flushed face and eyes fluttering in pleasure. Yamamoto knows that look. Until recently, it was he who put that look on Squalo's face. Squalo clutches Xanxus's chest, straining against his handcuffs, and bends forward to bury his face in Xanxus's neck. His hair slides over their bodies like a silken sheet.
Yamamoto remains fixed at the door, unable to move, unable to think of anything beyond how beautiful Squalo always looks during sex. The fire burning in Xanxus's red eyes draws Yamamoto's attention. Xanxus stares at Yamamoto, blinking to show that he sees him. Perhaps he even left the door partially open just for Yamamoto. Xanxus smirks, a liger who finally claimed his prize, wrested from the mere dog, then moans as he comes inside Squalo.
After Squalo's orgasm, Yamamoto returns to the room he shares with Squalo. He sits on the bed and realizes he has lost a teacher, a partner, and a lover all at once. The sense of betrayal, a burst of hot anger welling in his chest, comes next, soon followed by a crushing hatred of Xanxus that burns the back of his throat. Yamamoto clenches his fists and stares at the floor, trying to stuff all these emotions back into the embers of his heart, where they belong. He hates how the feelings make his head spin, how they fill him with the desire to slice his katana through human flesh, how they set a fire burning inside him-a silent fire, like the one that still lurks at the edges of his nightmares even after all these years. He hates how it makes him want to become the killer Reborn always said he would become.
It is the rain outside that calms Yamamoto, quenching the fire inside. He watches it for an hour, breathing in and out to the patter of raindrops against the window pane. Brabanters was right-perhaps it is best not to worry. Worry will drive a man mad.
When Squalo returns to the room, he smells of Xanxus-vodka, Old Spice, and gunpowder. Yamamoto studies him. Squalo's clothes are in disarray and his hair tousled. He says nothing at first-a true mark of shame, for Squalo almost always something to say, and usually at the top of his lungs.
Squalo turns his face. "Do you blame me?"
"Shouldn't I?"
"No." Squalo sounds fierce, defensive. Perhaps too defensive. "Because if Hibari suddenly changed his mind and wanted you, you would have done the same."
Yamamoto says nothing. This is a truth, he can feel it in his gut, but it stings his pride. He glares at Squalo.
"I'm sorry, okay!" Squalo knocks a vase as he swings his arm out. The white flowers spray across the floor, and the water pours over the side of the table, dripping down like the rain outside. "Fuck!"
Yamamoto rights the vase and watches the water pool on the floor.
"I was fourteen when I fell for the boss! You can't blame me! You were the same age with Hibari!" Squalo snarls, then lowers his voice. "You love Hibari, same as I love the boss. I just got to be the lucky one, is all. So stop looking like that."
"Love?" Yamamoto glances up from the wet floor. "Is that what it is?"
"What the hell else did you think it was?"
"I never thought about it."
"Yeah, you don't think about much, do you? You're worse than me."
Yamamoto meets Squalo's gaze, but Squalo quickly lowers his gaze, his face flushed. "I guess you want me gone?" Yamamoto asks.
"Not me." Squalo lowers his head. "The Boss."
Yamamoto smiles, though the expression does not reach past his lips. "I'm glad you got to be the lucky one, Squalo."
It is still raining when Yamamoto leaves the Varia's mansion, once and for all, suitcases in hand. But Yamamoto does not mind the rain. He only minds walking alone in it.
When the cab arrives, Yamamoto sits in it and refuses to look back at the Varia's mansion. On the long ride to the airport, he lies down and sleeps. He dreams that Hibari leans over him in bed, his mouth stained with chocolate, and demands more kisses.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
After all those years in Italy, Japan seems like a strange place to Yamamoto. He does not truly return home, nor does he wish to. He cannot bear to return to Namimori and face Tsuna's and Gokudera's questions. Worse, Namimori contains Reborn's grave. Yamamoto cannot bear to face that particular gravestone, in fear that Reborn's ghost would rise to punish him for his failures. Instead, he mourns the loss of Reborn from afar. It seems better that only those closest to him should visit his grave.
Yamamoto finds a small apartment in Tokyo. From there, he helps Tsuna by investigating the Millefiore and their mysterious power. But he gets lost almost every time he leaves his apartment, and he forgets the appropriate Japanese responses to certain situations. Tokyo seems as foreign to him as Italy-at least until June 18th.
Yamamoto pauses when the first raindrops fall. He smiles and glances up at the sky. Clouds have gathered and darkened the sky. People run under cover, and the crowded sidewalks clear of people. He thinks that it is good to be home again. Water pours over his hair, his face, soaks into his clothes, and Yamamoto welcomes it.
"Yamamoto Takeshi."
Yamamoto turns around and finds Kusakabe, Hibari's loyal henchman, staring at him. For once, he holds a black umbrella large enough to protect his large pompadour. He is taller than Yamamoto remembers, even taller than Yamamoto himself.
"The Director demands your presence."
Yamamoto glances around. "Hibari? Where is he?" Something lifts in his chest, feeling light. He has not seen Hibari in years.
"Follow me." Kusakabe leads Yamamoto down the block and heads inside one of the most expensive hotels in all Japan. Yamamoto remains quiet as he follows the Kusakabe onto the elevator. He wonders what Hibari wishes to see him for. He wonders how Hibari even spotted him from a hotel room.
Kusakabe steps off the elevator at one of the top floors and then opens the door to a large, traditional-style suite. Yamamoto steps inside, though Kusakabe does not join him, instead closing the door behind him. Yamamoto glances around and drips water. The room is empty, so he removes his shoes and steps further in.
"Hello?" he calls.
Movement behind a partially-open door catches Yamamoto's eyes. The door slides fully open, and Hibari studies him from the other side. A towel wraps around his inviting flesh, revealing a formidable, if compact, musculature. Though Hibari is a grown man, even older than Yamamoto, he appears little older from when they first met. His fingers are long and delicate as they grip the door, his neck slender and white. His mop of black hair obscures his beautiful face, hiding eyes sharp enough to slice fish into sashimi. This is the illusion of Hibari, an illusion of fragility and delicacy. An illusion that hides a heart as hard and sharp as Yamamoto's katana. Yet, his childish aura seems as real as ever.
"Yamamoto Takeshi," Hibari finally says.
"Hibari Kyōya." Yamamoto smiles. "It's been a while."
Hibari studies him, then slides the door shut. Yamamoto can hear the rustle of cloth. His imagination builds on those sounds. He thinks of Hibari sliding the cloth over his lithe body and mentally replaces the material with his hands. He imagines soft skin and unyielding muscles, contours and shapes that would reveal Hibari's strength to Yamamoto's investigating fingers. He imagines a flush creeping across Hibari's naked body as Yamamoto touches him. He imagines the parting of lips, the invitation of a soft moan when his hand grips Hibari's hard flesh-
-and the door slides open again to reveal Hibari dressed in a simple yukata. He wears it with the sort of grace one would expect of the Emperor of Japan in full ceremonial dress.
Yamamoto's face heats, and he adjusts his trousers in hopes he shows no physical evidence of his imagination. Hibari steps into the main room of the suite and sits down on a mat, by a kettle of tea. He pours himself a cup and stares up at Yamamoto, clearly not inviting him to sit. Yamamoto wonders why he was brought here, and then he sees a bag of Hershey's Kisses lying near Hibari.
"Heh. Hershey's Kisses." Yamamoto grins. "I remember those."
"Do you?" Hibari raises an eyebrow. "My men informed me that you no longer reside with the Varia."
Yamamoto shoves his hands in his pockets. He shivers, remembering that he is still cold and wet. He does not meet Hibari's gaze. He does not want to talk about the Varia or Squalo with Hibari. A part of him wonders if it was Squalo that kept Hibari away.
"Are you not going to answer?"
Yamamoto forces a laugh. "So, is this like a police interrogation? How'd you know I was in front of the hotel? You must be on the millionth floor up here."
Hibari sips his tea without looking at Yamamoto, long enough to imply he has no desire to answer that question. "You would grow stronger if you stayed longer with the shark."
Yamamoto sighs. "I'm strong enough."
"No." Hibari sets his cup down. "You are not."
That stung. "Why do you care how strong I am?"
"Why should I not?"
"You want to fight me? Well, if you want to, we could do that any time."
"But there would be no point. You would pose little challenge to me. You should return to Italy and train more with the shark." Hibari stares at the wall near Yamamoto. "That would make you stronger."
"That's over," Yamamoto says, and takes a few steps closer to Hibari. "I'm not wanted there anymore."
"I see."
Hibari stands, and Yamamoto takes advantage of the movement to dart forward and back Hibari against the wall. Hibari still manages to punch him in the stomach, but Yamamoto sucks in the pain and stares down at the other man. He can smell Hibari's shampoo, the lingering scent of soap on his pretty skin. It sets Yamamoto aflame, and it is all he can do to resist burying his nose in Hibari's hair.
"You still owe me a bag's worth of kisses, you know," Yamamoto said.
Hibari studies him. "Is that so?" He lashes out, and Yamamoto falls back onto the floor without ceremony.
Yamamoto grins and sweeps out his legs, knocking Hibari to the floor with him. Before Hibari can move, Yamamoto pins him to the ground. He expects resistance, but instead, Hibari glances up at Yamamoto, his eyes dark and filled with a familiar emotion. It is desire, dark and deep, matching Yamamoto's. To see it so naked on Hibari's expression leaves Yamamoto breathless and wanting. He yanks Hibari's yukata open to run his hands over the smooth flesh beneath it. Hibari bucks up, demanding more, and Yamamoto obliges by bending down to take Hibari in his mouth.
Air escapes Hibari's lips with the slightest of sounds. His thighs tremble and his back arches when Yamamoto explores his length with lips and tongue. For once Hibari is vulnerable, laid bare and wanting beneath Yamamoto. The realization leaves Yamamoto bereft of patience. He fumbles in his pockets until he finds the small bottle of oil he always keeps with him-a habit he picked up from Squalo. Hibari only watches as Yamamoto pours the oil over his fingers and opens his trousers to slick himself up. There is no resistance when Yamamoto slips a finger inside Hibari, hooking, searching. Hibari's eyes flutter when he finds the right spot.
As if Hibari were an opponent, instead of a lover, Yamamoto takes him with one quick thrust. Despite this, Hibari only utters a soft gasp. He grips Yamamoto's shoulders and urges him on. Yamamoto buries himself to the hilt inside Hibari, then slides back, only to drive back in. His hips quickly find their own rhythm, drummers pounding out a beat as old as nature. Yamamoto thinks of little aside from the blissful pressure building inside of his lower body, a pleasure that stretches deep inside his own core. When Hibari glances up at him, his face flushed, Yamamoto comes with a wordless cry, his orgasm emptying him and filling him all at once.
But still Yamamoto thrusts, even as his orgasm fades to mere echoes, mindful of Hibari's needs. He closes one hand around Hibari's length, and the other he uses to draw Hibari's lips to his own. But Hibari comes before their lips touch, and he leans back, caught up in his own ecstasy. Yamamoto treasures the second and final gasp of Hibari's pleasure, as quiet as Squalo's cries were loud, and blissfully free of other mens' names. Hibari watches with heavy eyes as Yamamoto brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes Hibari's come-a delicate flavor, salty, but with a hint of sweetness.
Yamamoto brushes his fingers across Hibari's cheek, but the other man slides away. Hibari sits up and studies Yamamoto's face as he pulls his yukata shut. Yamamoto returns the gaze, wondering what Hibari thinks, what he feels. They mystery of it entices him, but also frustrates him.
Hibari turns away and stands. "Consider yourself paid back. Now leave."
The simple statement cuts through Yamamoto's afterglow like a blade. It hurts even more than Squalo's rejection, burning through Yamamoto, a fire he cannot quench, a fire he resents. "Why-why do you always push me away? You invited me in here, let me fuck you, then throw me out?"
Hibari turns his face. "If the shark had not sent you away, you would still be there." He glances back, and his expression is something alien to his nature: confusion. "If I do not send you away, you will remain."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Stop asking so many questions." Hibari's expression shifts to one of childish desperation, and then the vulnerability suddenly flees. He stands before Yamamoto as he always has: the callous child, his expression sculpted from ice.
"Hibari," Yamamoto whispers, coming to his feet. "Don't do this."
"If you continue to beg, I will bite you to death." Hibari turns away then, and disappears inside his bedroom, his final word that of the wooden door sliding shut.
Regret burns through Yamamoto. The regret of not being enough for anyone-not for Hibari, not for Squalo, not for Xanxus-not even for Tsuna, who needs no more than Gokudera at his side. The regret burns bright enough to make him feel like the room should burst into flame. But there is no smoke, no fire. The fire goes out, leaving him with a mouthful of ash.
Yamamoto leaves the hotel and walks out into the rain. He forgot his shoes in Hibari's room, but rather than shame himself by going back, he walks down the wet sidewalks in his socks. He lets the rain soak him, seeping inside his skin, until it quenches his soul and leaves him numb.
It was like Brabanters said: A Rain Guardian should not worry about he does. He should simply do it.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Takeshi laughs. It is June 18th, ten years in the future, and it still rains. He walks through the forest, feeling clean in the rain, empowered. It is his element. It courses through him, and he cannot help but think of the rain as an extension of himself. This is his day, June 18th. Better than a birthday.
He and all his friends leave tomorrow, to go back to their own time. Verde now makes the final calculations, and Squalo left yesterday, jumping off a cliff for dramatic effect. Takeshi feels giddy. Everything seems bright and possible now that Byakuran is dead. His father is alive, and everyone is safe
"Are you in the habit of smiling at funerals, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Hibari's voice suddenly asks.
Takeshi follows the sound of the voice and glances up. Hibari sits in a tree, glaring down at him. Takeshi smiles wider at him. "No, why?"
"That girl with the puffy hat and her pet thug just died. And you are smiling."
Takeshi's smile instantly fades at the memory of Uni's sacrifice. His heart drops, and the world seems a little bleaker. "I just-well, I was-I mean to say-"
"I do not actually care. I was merely curious if you smile at funerals."
"This isn't a funeral. Uni sacrificed herself for us. She died because she wanted to. We should celebrate her gift instead. Thanks to her, we're all strong enough to face anything when we go home." Takeshi studies Hibari's delicate features. They had barely spoken since Hibari ate sushi at his house. Takeshi likely exchanged more words with Hibari's future self than the Hibari of his time. The adult Hibari seemed much like the teenage Hibari: surly, unpleasant, violent, and intimidating. Takeshi liked him immediately. "Do you smile at funerals?"
"No. I smile when I kill people, though," Hibari replies, yawning.
Takeshi laughs. "Hardcore, huh?"
"You laugh so often. Do you laugh when you kill people?"
Takeshi blinks and shifts on his feet. His neck aches from staring up at Hibari. "I've never killed anyone."
Hibird chirps Hibari's name, then settles in his messy hair. Hibari tilts his head, causing Hibird to chirp in protest. "You are fooling yourself."
Takeshi does not want to think about that. He does not want to think of the Ring Battle with Squalo. He does not want to think of Genkishi. He does not want to think of Byakuran. He looks down and rolls his shoulders, then shuffles his feet in the dirt. "Hey, isn't it funny how we're having a June 18th again? We just had one two months ago."
"I have no need to pay attention to dates."
"I do, though. It always rains on June 18th. Even in the future." Takeshi looks up again and smiles when he sees Hibari's gaze is fixed on him. The attention warms him through, heedless of his wet clothes and dripping hair. The rain, as always, seems to slide off Hibari without wetting him. "I'm glad we have two June 18ths this year."
"It is not the same year."
"Huh?"
"You said so yourself. We are in the future. It is not the same year. You are experiencing two June 18ths, but each year still only has one."
"Oh, I guess you're right." Takeshi grins. "You know, you can come back to my father's sushi place after we go home. I can make you more tuna nigiri. We have more Hershey's Kisses, too."
Hibari drops to the ground, shaking water off of him like a dog. Hibird flutters back up into the air, singing Hibari's name in departure. Hibari turns his back to Takeshi. "Pervert."
"Oh." Takeshi swallows and his stomach twists with disappointment. "You didn't like the kiss?"
Hibari glances back at Takeshi with narrowed eyes. "Did my future self say anything to you?" As quickly as Hibari changed subjects, Takeshi wondered if he might develop whiplash.
"Oh, well. Not much. When I met up with him once in a hallway, he told me not to disappoint him and to grow up strong. Then he hit me with his tonfa for standing too close. You don't change much when you grow up."
"Hmph." Hibari yawns. "You were passably interesting during the Choice Battle and in defending against that Ghost creature."
"You think so?"
"I just said so. Do not question me, or I will-"
"-bite me to death, right?" Takeshi laughs. "You're pretty interesting, too."
Hibari turns fully and scowls at him. "You are almost strong enough."
"I am? Great!" Takeshi pauses. "Er. Almost strong enough for what?"
Hibari is on him in an instant, moving faster than Takeshi can keep up with. It is only his instinct, that raw killer instinct that Reborn and Squalo laid bare, that allows him to block Hibari's tonfa with Shingure Kintoki. Hibari presses him against a tree, as fierce as a tiger, his eyes practically glowing with manic joy, though his face shows only the barest hint of a smile. Takeshi stares back, wondering why Hibari is suddenly attacking him.
"Strong enough for this." Hibari leans forward to kiss Takeshi.
This is an attack Takeshi welcomes. He drops Shigure Kintoki and pulls Hibari close, kissing back. The experience is wet and messy, a surreal mixture of soft lips, probing tongues, and hard teeth, but sends sharp thrills down Takeshi's body. His pants grow tight, and when Hibari palms his crotch, he feels like he might burst out of his skin. He slides his hands down to cup Hibari's ass and grind their hips together. The pressure drives him mad, leaving him with urges and half-formed fantasies that he is not sure if he is allowed to pursue.
"Wao," Hibari whispers. The rain no longer rolls off Hibari. Instead, it soaks through his clothing, leaving him as wet and bedraggled as Takeshi.
Takeshi smiles and reaches for Hibari, wanting to feel more of him, to explore him, to make him really his, but Hibari pulls away. Takeshi's smile fades. He wonders what he did wrong until Hibari smiles a little. The expression is rare enough to give Takeshi pause, even when Hibari starts to walk away.
"Not yet," Hibari says over his shoulder. "When you are stronger. Then I will stay."
Takeshi sighs as Hibari disappears through the trees. He picks up Shigure Kintoki and wanders off to practice his sword katas in the rain. It is strange to be both disappointed and yet elated at the same time. He still does not have Hibari, but there is a promise, and that will have to do for now.
It is best not to worry.
Owari.