Length: 3,057 words.

Characters/Pairings: Gokudera Hayato, Dr. Shamal, Gokudera's various family members (in passing)

Warnings: Blood, violence, implied character death, and also the fact that Gokudera's family are all idiots who think poisoning a little boy is a good way to gain prestige.

What is wrong with this child's life, I s2g.

Shamal knows he's a disappointment.

He also knows that somehow, somewhere deep down inside, Hayato still believes he's more than an alcoholic old pervert—knows that somehow, with his father locked in his study, his mother dead, his step-mother distant and angry and sad, Hayato started looking to him as his father. He knows that when Hayato asks him for help it's because he wants to think Shamal cares as much as he won't admit he does. When he yells at him for being a pervert or a drunkard or a dumbass it's because that's how Hayato deals with things that disappoint him.

And if the kid really didn't have any expectations left for him, he wouldn't be so disappointed when Shamal lives up to exactly none of them.

He never asked to be the man this kid looks up to, he tells himself—when the drinks take him out the other side of happy numbness and he comes face to face with himself and sees himself clearly. He never asked to be the go-to guy to mentor him and teach him to take care of himself, he never intended the kid to take what Shamal taught him to the streets and tear himself to pieces on them. It's not his goddamn fault the kid is so messed up.

But you could have helped.

There had been a party. A party he doesn't like to remember, and most of the time doesn't; there had been good wine and beautiful women, and he had indulged in both. It had been a party for…Bianchi's birthday, he thinks. And he'd been standing in the corner, chatting up some heiress—beautiful, she'd been wearing dark blue and diamonds and he remembers how her eyes matched her dress. (He remembers them all.)

And then the murmur of conversation had stopped and Shamal had turned, hiding his displeasure as the smatter of polite applause distracted the woman with the diamonds. Their host had been only a few feet away, separated from Shamal's corner by a few little cliques of politely silent dons and their wives and mistresses, holding out a hand to proudly introduce—

Oh.

He hadn't seen Hayato since the kid was…god, how long now? Since he was six? Five? He had been a little taller, still dressed in the same crisp suit, a miniature copy of his father's…he had to have been almost eight, by then. (He looks more like his mother every time Shamal sees him.)

…and he wasn't doing so good.

Shamal has seen men die in a thousand different ways over the years, from diseases and wounds and poison. And he knew that uneasy stagger to Hayato's step. He knew the way his hand kept twitching uneasily towards his stomach and then jerking back to his side again and the way his body seemed to be curling in on itself in pain. Bianchi had been standing there at her father's other side, holding a plate of cookies in both hands; Shamal had narrowed his eyes, squinted through the haze of candlelight and wine and caught the faintest wisp of dark smoke drifting through the air. (Poison cooking. She gets more like her mother every day.) Even under the golden lights of the candles lit around the hall Hayato's face had been so very pale, his eyes huge and green against his white skin.

But he'd staggered to the piano and pulled himself onto the bench, and he'd begun to play.

Shamal tried not to listen. He remembers that much. But when he'd turned back to the woman to continue their conversation she had been staring past him, eyes fixed on the piano, looking somewhere in the distance. He'd tried not to listen, but the music was out of control and jumbled and shaky and still so beautiful he couldn't get her face out of his head.

He plays like you, he'd thought distantly, mournfully, he plays like you even when he can barely see straight. He's your little boy alright.

(She would come play for him rain or shine, any day of the year; she would come play for him when she could barely stand to get out of bed and when her hands were trembling with pain and when she coughed blood into her handkerchief between songs.)

Hayato had finished playing and bowed to his audience and Shamal had still been standing stock still, just staring. Everyone had turned back to their conversations and little political wars.

Shamal was the only one who watched Hayato stagger to the door and slip out into the dark hallway beyond.

"—are you alright?"

He'd blinked himself awake to a gentle hand on his arm and a sweet smile. He doesn't remember what he said—his mind so full of a silver-haired figure shuddering in pain, of tiny splatters of blood on the keys of a piano…

…he'd let the woman in the blue dress go and the next thing he knew he had been wandering through the silent mansion. Hell, he didn't know where the kid would have gone, he had no reason to be wandering around here, but—

…but his old man was busy and his sister had to be starting her birthday dinner by now and who else was gonna follow the kid now that his father was done showing him off? Shamal was (is) a nasty old bastard and he knows it, but it wouldn't sit well on even his mostly-dysfunctional conscience if the kid crawled off and curled up in some corner to die. He'd been getting tired of the noise and the crowd anyway, he had told himself firmly, and sighed as he peered into another dark room.

…But hell, the kid was tiny, and he'd had minutes of head start. This place was enormous. He couldn't have gone too far, but even within the radius Shamal would expect a poisoned seven-year-old to run there were an awful lot of rooms with a lot of tiny crevices to hide in.

He sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out one of his special mosquitos.

"…don't sting him," he told her firmly, and she lifted off and spun in midair, seeking a heat signal.

Shamal followed her down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another hallway—if the kid ran this far, he'd be seriously impressed—past a room where a couple was obviously having much the same idea he'd had when he saw that beauty with the diamonds across the dance floor. Up another flight of stairs that dead-ended in a single door.

Sera buzzed down and landed on his shoulder and he held out a palm with the halves of her case on it; she landed on his hand, curled up inside one half, compacted with a tiny buzz of sliding metal, and then went inert. Back in the case, back in his pocket, back to the problem at hand.

He thought maybe (maybe, the mansion was enormous) he was at the top floor by now. Yeah. This would be the eastern tower, top floor.

Trust Bertrando to put something his son on the other side of the mansion from him and then wonder why he never saw his children. Shamal sighed again, and pushed a little at the door. It wasn't locked; it swung open easily at a touch.

There was only one dim light on, but even from what he could see the room was obviously no prison cell. There was a window on the far wall with a spectacular view of the moonlit forest and the cliffs below. Paintings on the wall, velvet furniture…

…it was a beautiful bedroom, but it looked like it belonged to some old geezer. Didn't look like a bedroom a kid could grow up in. Shamal frowned. But then again he wasn't exactly an authority on childcare—he just shook his head and stared around the room, looking for any sign of Hayato.

…nothing. But if he held his breath and closed his eyes, he thought he might have heard—yeah. A tiny sniff, but it wasn't nearly loud enough to pinpoint where it was coming from. Shamal took a purposefully loud step and caught an almost inaudible gasp, right on the edge of hearing, and a soft sound of fabric shifting. To his…right.

"You always ditch your sister's birthday parties, kid?" He asked the darkness, and took another few steps forward towards the sound of a muffled sniff. "…Piano sounded okay." What did you even say to a kid when your last words to him had been 'I'm never going to teach you again'? Shamal scratched uncomfortably under the tight collar of his shirt and wished he had another drink.

A far-too-big bed in the corner, an old, heavy clothes chest at its foot…

Shamal peered around the other end of the chest and sighed.

"…you gonna throw up?"

Hayato shook his head and curled up tighter against the foot of his bed, pressing his face into his arms. What Shamal could make out of his face was still ashy pale, and every so often he would shudder, muscles tensing, and let out a soft little whimper of pain.

"…it really did…sound good," Shamal muttered, and crouched down, reaching out a hand. Sounded like your mamma, you did good... "…hey, kid—"

But before he could finish the sentence Hayato lunged forward and the next thing Shamal knew there was a pair of thin arms wrapped around him, a sweaty, clammy face pressed into his chest. Hayato was shivering and his skin was icy and streaked with sweat, but his grip was feverishly strong.

"—I don't want to," he croaked, and Shamal just sat there like an idiot, his arms awkwardly raised, not sure whether to push the kid off or drop an arm around him and hug him back or just sit there and let him do what he wants. He should've tried to say something comforting, but all that came out as a rough curse. Hayato didn't even seem to hear. His face was twisted up with pain, his nose and cheeks blotchy red over their pallor. "…d-don't want to anymore, it hurts…"

"Well—" He lowered his arms slowly, but instead of being comforted when one arm wrapped around him Hayato just sobbed out loud and held him even tighter, tears soaking into his shirt. "—well hell, just…stop playing for him, then."

"—c-can't stop—father…when I p-play he—" his voice constricted in another sob of pain and one hand let go of Shamal's shirt to clench on his stomach. "—says he's—so—p-proud of me—"

So proud of me.

The kid was barely conscious and that was all he was thinking about the whole time.

Shamal reached down and dropped a hand roughly on Hayato's hair, feeling a headache start to throb in his temples as the kid shivered and held onto him like if he just huddled close enough, if he was just held tight enough, it would stop hurting. (He's no good with kids, he's never been good with crying, he hates not knowing what to do and he always has.)

"Sit still, okay?" he'd muttered. Hayato had sniffed and nodded and then yelped in pain as something stung the back of his neck. He'd made one last soft, tearful sound like "—ah…" and then gone limp. Shamal had caught him as his grip slowly loosened and he slumped to one side, the pain fading out of him as the anesthetic circulated.

He'd dropped the kid on the bed and turned to leave—and then stopped in the doorway and turned back.

Hayato's tiny, pale figure didn't move as Shamal bent down and pulled the blankets up over him. He didn't kiss his cool, sweaty forehead or whisper anything secret and affectionate or even smile. But he ruffled Hayato's silver hair and let his hand linger there for a moment before he turned out the lights and closed the door behind him.

He could have gone to Bertrando and told him he shouldn't treat his kid like that. He could have told him Hayato's so like his mother, that he would play his heart out if someone would just tell him they were proud of him, that if this doesn't stop, that poison's going to kill Hayato one day. That maybe if his father ever spared the time to stop worrying about his accounts and his wife and paid attention to his kids…

…he could have told him that he knows it hurts, that he's still missing her too, that he knows what it feels like seeing the kid play that damn piano. Tell him he has to stop this.

But he walked down the stairs and out the door. Another disappointment.

A few weeks later he heard that Hayato was gone. He was gone, he was out of the city, probably out of the province, and he wasn't coming back. Bianchi was silent as the grave, her back perfectly straight, her mouth pressed into a tight, straight line when people asked after her brother. Her mother seemed unchanged; locked in her room, distant and unhappy. His father was silently devastated, regretting like he always had done, has done, will do—asking himself why this had to happen, tearing himself to pieces over things he couldn't change.

Shamal told himself he didn't care. He was a disappointment to the kid anyway. Maybe after a few years on the streets he would get that and stop hoping every single damn time that Shamal would miraculously be a better person than he was last time.

But there he is a few years later, skinny and awkward and angry and still he buries his hands in his pockets and looks awkwardly away and mutters "—would you…teach me." Scarred and tired and jaded and still so vulnerable and still so hopeful.

He could tell him sure, whatever, I owe the Vongola a favor anyway. Could tell him how he needs to stop leaning on Shamal, he's almost fifteen now for God's sake, could tell him off for making Bianchi upset, because one should never upset a beautiful woman, even if they're only a beautiful woman in the making.

Could tell him he's been worried, goddammit, he can't just go running off like an idiot and jumping without looking.

But he slams the door shut behind him and walks right past. Another disappointment.

He won't have seen Hayato in years. On and off, in passing, and the kid (he'll be a man, slowly and surely growing broader and taller and stronger, he'll be such a man) will still give him those crooked little smiles like he still wants to look up to him. He will be going on fifty soon…the years will have gone by so fast. He'll be a little less slim, a little less suave, a lot more tired and he'll have watched so many of his oldest friends vanish off the radar by now. Hayato will be almost twenty-four, young and strong and the right-hand-man of the greatest family in the world, leading the fight as the Millefiore rise and across the world Vongola strongholds fall like dominos. He'll have no right to look up to an old womanizer, no need to look to him for comfort when he has a family that loves him with all their hearts and men who trust him with their lives. No reason to smile that same smile at him and make him remember the little boy he left behind.

But still Hayato will smile, and when Shamal will see Bianchi, Reborn, when the Vongola see him they'll smile too and they'll tell him, "Hayato said hello." "You should come to headquarters more often, Gokudera misses you a lot more than he'll say, hahaha!" "Gokudera-kun says he left you a bottle of wine in the wine cellar, because 'these days you…need all the help you can get'?" ""At least send in some information on your position occasionally, doctor. Our strategist is getting antsy not knowing where you are." He'll roll his eyes and mumble something that might almost be an 'okay, okay' but he won't visit often and he never did, never has, never will carry a cell phone with him as much as he should.

Shamal was, is, will be a long-range fighter but he'll be flushed out of his hiding place, run into the open, and he'll have been fighting for hours, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake; he won't have enough mosquitos to deal with them all on his own.

They won't exchange more than a few words to each other after all this time, because they'll fall in back to back and there will be far too many enemies around them to waste time on catching up. He'll catch Hayato's wild, fierce grin and a flash of bright silver-green as his eyes catch the light of his flames. Hear him yell "Glad you're still alive, you old bastard!" and "—I'll get this side!" He'll send the last of his swarm into the air and hear the world explode behind him as Hayato will make the air scream. He'll have surpassed his tutor, years before.

Hayato's victims will be dead or unconscious immediately. Shamal's will take longer, twitching and writhing and then slowly going still. He'll have integrated some of the poisons Bianchi's created over the years to augment his weaponry; he'll turn, wondering if Hayato would appreciate the irony, and see him grinning back, eyes bright, panting, running high on adrenaline, so alive and so young. And behind him, the glint of metal as a man will lift a gun in one blood-stained hand; he'll be shaking, seconds from death, but even as his lungs will disintegrate and blood will pour down his chin and throat, he'll aim with steady hands and unerring accuracy.

Shamal will have no time to think about what he should or could do. The only thought that will fly into his head in that second will be the kind that would make him laugh if he had time. No, not Hayato, he'll think, and Hayato will grunt as Shamal grabs him and pulls him bodily to one side—

…he won't disappoint this time.

I would like to think that Shamal survives this fic, but really I don't know. Let's say he gets shot and then makes a slow but miraculous recovery and then he actually spends some time with his protege. That would be choice.