Takeshi Yamamoto had never expected his life to be anything out of the usual. He looked the part of the Japanese stereotype; black hair that looked auburn in the light, brown eyes, tanned skin. He had a common name, he played professional baseball. Just your average guy.

But that all changed when he met Hayato Gokudera. That night was the one that changed his life forever.

Walking down the street after practice one night, Yamamoto stretched his arms in a rather cheerful mood. He'd had a good practice today; pitched past his speed record, all of his hits had been solid, and best of all he hadn't gotten injured! Yamamoto never took for granted that he hadn't been injured after a game or practice. After all, getting hit by an 80+ MPH fastball wasn't the most painless experience.

Looking casually to the side, Yamamoto happened to glance into a nearby alley. There was nothing unusual about the alley; it looked like every other alley on the block.

But something caught Yamamoto's eye.

There was a flash of silver, just visible over the top of one of the green trashcans. Usually, it could be assumed that it was just a scrap of metal that had fallen out of someone's recycling bin. But this wasn't the color of metal. It was a light and silky silver that held no resemblance to the harsh gleam of metal.

Peaking Yamamoto's interest, the baseball player changed his course of direction and made his way over to the piece of silver.

What he saw shocked him.

The silver was actually hair and it was attached to a man. But this man wasn't just lying in the alley because he felt like it; he was unconscious or maybe even dead. He had deep cuts and bruises all over his face and body, a deep gash on his forehead, a black eye, and his arm was bending in an angle that was not natural.

Rushing over to the man, knocking over some trashcans in the process, Yamamoto took the man's pulse. Thankfully, it was still beating strong. As soon as he knew the man was alive, Yamamoto knew he couldn't just leave him there.

Not caring what it looked like to the few pedestrians still walking along the streets nor how much blood he'd get on his sweat jacket, Yamamoto picked the man up bridal style. The man moaned slightly, making Yamamoto wince and hope he wasn't putting the other in too much pain. Well, at least he couldn't feel it since he was unconscious.

He carried the silver haired man down the street, heading in the direction of his home. He'd had the fleeting thought of taking the man to the hospital, but quickly canceled out the idea. If this man had been beaten to unconsciousness and almost close to death, as it looked, then he definitely didn't want to be found by the same people. Checking into the hospital would get the man's name on record when he regained consciousness. Also, if the man freaked out when he didn't know where he was, at least he wouldn't feel threatened by the restrains the hospital would probably put onto him.

And so, Yamamoto took the man to his house.

As he opened the door with some difficulty and managed to get inside to lay the bleeding man on his couch, he realized just how beautiful the man was. His silver hair was absolutely beautiful and it shined against the man's pale skin. Yamamoto suddenly had an insane urge to see the man's eyes; see how they matched against the rest of the man's beauty.

Well, one thing was for sure at least. This man was not Japanese.

Yamamoto moved away from the couch to get his first aid kit, knowing that he'd need to stop the bleeding and sling the man's arm if he didn't want a corpse on his hands. Washing his hands first (Yamamoto had at least paid attention a little in the short class he'd taken on medicine!), Yamamoto decided to deal with the cuts first. Even though the broken arm would be painful if the man woke up, it wasn't threatening his life like the cuts that were still bleeding were.

The man's pant legs were torn, so Yamamoto just ripped the rest of the fabric and pushed the man's jacket open so that he could access the cuts. Taking a small bottle of disinfectant, Yamamoto dabbed a little of it with a cotton ball on each of the man's wounds which included his forehead, his legs, and a particular worrying one straight down his front. The man twitched in his unconsciousness, most likely feeling the sting of the alcohol. Yamamoto then took long strips of gauze and dressed the wounds, making sure they stayed firmly in place as to effectively stop the bleeding.

Next, the bruises and the black eye would have to heal on their own, but the broken arm needed taking care of.

Yamamoto wasn't sure where the man's bone fracture was, but he decided to just do all he could possibly do with his medical knowledge. Taking a flat board, Yamamoto straightened the man's arm and placed it on top of the board. He then wrapped gauze around the entire arm and board until it was made into a makeshift cast. Yamamoto then used a piece of cloth to tie around the arm and the man's neck so the man couldn't easily move it and hurt himself.

When he was satisfied with his work, Yamamoto decided to leave the man to natural healing. And so he waited for consciousness as he lay on the floor and looked up at the man in slight worry.

He couldn't help but wonder what the man had done to get so beaten up like that.


Yamamoto must've fallen asleep at some point, because when he awoke a gun was pointed right in his face.

His eyes widening, Yamamoto immediately put his hands up in surrender as he stared down the barrel. He noticed that the gun was shaking a little bit and he looked up the gun to see the silver haired man pointing it at him. His gaze was hard, his voice mistrusting as he spoke.

"Move an inch and I'll kill you." He wasn't kidding at all; the gun was more than enough proof of that. The man had no accent, which made Yamamoto start to doubt his earlier assumption that the man wasn't Japanese. However, Yamamoto did hear the pain in the man's voice as he started speaking again.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken too, or I won't hesitate to shoot. Who are you and what do you want from me?"

Yamamoto swallowed, looking back down at the end of the gun. If the man pulled the trigger, Yamamoto had no hopes of making it out alive. His heart was pounding in his chest from fear, but he stopped his body from shaking because he'd been told not to move.

"I'm Takeshi Yamamoto," he started out, proud that his voice wasn't shaking. "I play professional baseball with the Tokyo Giants and I found you passed out in an alley on my way back from practice. I couldn't just leave you injured like that, so I took you to my apartment to heal you. I figured you wouldn't want to be in a hospital…"

The man shoved his gun closer to Yamamoto's face.

"That wasn't what I asked," he growled. Yamamoto briefly wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

"I-I don't want anything from you… I just wanted to help you so that you wouldn't die…" Yamamoto said quietly, his voice starting to shake.

The man's glare pierced into Yamamoto and he realized that he was finally able to see the man's eyes. They were a sharp emerald green, matching beautifully with the rest of his looks. However, Yamamoto couldn't really enjoy staring at the man's beautiful face. He was staring down a gun, after all.

To Yamamoto's relief, the man lowered his gun.

"… Fine. I won't kill you, for now. But if you try and pull anything, anything at all, I will kill you," the man growled before stuffing the gun back into his coat after putting the safety on. He then leaned back onto the couch. Yamamoto only then realized that the man's face was pale, even paler than his natural skin tone. He must be in a lot of pain.

Yamamoto figured that now that the gun was away, the rules the man had set on him earlier no longer applied.

"Can I get you some painkillers and a wet towel? You look like you're in pain and the towel will probably help the fever that you look like you have…" Yamamoto stated, worry coating his voice.

The man turned to glare at him, his gaze still distrusting. Yamamoto wondered why the man was being so cautious. For a second, Yamamoto thought the man would pull out his gun again, but thankfully he just turned his head to the ceiling.

"… only the wet towel. I can deal with a little pain," the man gritted out. It was a lot more pain than a little, Yamamoto knew, but it was probably better to not cross the silver haired man.

Getting up from the ground, and finally lowering his arms that had still been up in the surrendering position, Yamamoto walked into his bathroom to get a towel. He turned on the sink and dampened it before coming back out to the couch. He kneeled next to the man, who was watching him intently, and laid the towel across the man's forehead.

Yamamoto couldn't hold back a smile at the quiet relieved sigh he heard from the other man.

Still kneeling by the man's face, Yamamoto finally got to stare at the man as he closed his eyes. His face was so smooth and beautiful that Yamamoto had a strange urge to stroke the man's cheek. But he decided that that wouldn't be the best idea in the world.

Instead, he opted to start up conversation.

"What's your name?" Yamamoto asked, the question coming out more breathtaking than he'd intended.

This was probably what made the man give him a strange look. His look was wary, but then again he hadn't trusted Yamamoto the moment he'd woken up. Yamamoto wondered if he was stupid for thinking the man would actually supply him the answer to his question.

Eventually, though, a small mumble came out of the man's throat.

"… Gokudera…"

Yamamoto didn't even care that he didn't get the first name. At least he had something to call the man now.

"Gokudera is a beautiful name," Yamamoto announced happily. The man's cold glare shocked him and he looked down. Why was Gokudera so sour about everything? He'd complimented him, for crying out loud!

Suddenly realizing something, Yamamoto decided to change the subject.

"Are you hungry? I can make you something!" Yamamoto suggested. He really wanted to get Gokudera to trust him; after all, he'd be staying here for however long it took for his wounds to heal.

However, something told Yamamoto that reaching that goal wouldn't be easy.

"I'm not hungry," Gokudera grounded out. It sounded like every word out of his mouth was causing him great pain. However, as if to purposely counter his statement, Gokudera's stomach growled loudly.

Yamamoto pouted. He didn't like that Gokudera was trying to act all tough when he obviously needed a lot of care. Why couldn't he just except that he needed help and that Yamamoto was willing to give it to him?

"Well, I'm making you something anyway," Yamamoto insisted. He stood up again and started to head for his kitchen, different food he could make floating through his mind. He wondered what Gokudera would enjoy the most. If the man was even willing to eat it. Yamamoto had thought he'd heard a growl as he'd left.

As Yamamoto moved about the kitchen, he'd finally decided on making nikujaga which was a Japanese soup with vegetables and meat, a sudden shout and a loud whine came from the living room.

Dropping everything and rushing out of the kitchen, Yamamoto was faced with a strange sight.

Gokudera had slightly risen himself off the couch with his uninjured arm, leaning sideways as he glared at Yamamoto's shiba inu, Jirou. The innocent dog had walked over to the couch and was sniffing Gokudera curiously, his tail wagging a bit. The whines were coming from him, as Gokudera was literally growling at the dog. Gokudera's stance was stiff and even the hairs on the back of his neck were standing upright as the threatening rumble came from his throat.

Wanting to break up the scene, Yamamoto rushed over and hugged his arms around Jirou. The shiba inu barked happily and licked his cheek as Yamamoto looked up at Gokudera pleadingly. He'd forgotten about his pet when he'd brought Gokudera here and he was now hoping to god that Gokudera liked animals.

"Gokudera, it's okay! This is just my dog, Jirou!" Yamamoto exclaimed, worry lacing his voice. He didn't want Gokudera shooting his dog.

Gokudera stopped growling, though he was still eyeing Jirou distrustfully. Yamamoto couldn't help but feel exasperated that the silver haired man couldn't even trust a dog. Eventually, though, he relaxed and lay back down on his back. He closed his eyes briefly before dropping his arm over the side of the couch. Jirou's ears perked and he walked over to the pale hand, sniffing it for a moment before licking it happily.

Yamamoto thought for the faintest moment that he could see a small smile on Gokudera's face as he scratched behind Jirou's ears. But then it was gone, making Yamamoto question if he'd even seen it in the first place.

(A/N) Well, isn't Gokudera the mistrusting character ;D I'm really excited about writing this story; I like the plot I've come up with and hopefully you guys will, too! Gokudera's past is a mystery for now, but it will all be revealed in time. If I ever get to it, lol. For now, I'm going to focus on the other two stories I'm working on because three at a time will kill me with school just around the corner. I just had to get this out there so I can focus on my other stories now! See you soon and thanks for reading~