He killed for the first time yesterday… a bulbous man, fat from feasts and power, who had tried to offer Yamamoto a night with one of his 'boys' so he could win over his trust.
Yamamoto was 19 years old; the man had been 42. He had been disgusting, vile, heartless… he had sold humans like others would sell livestock. But when Yamamoto had slid his katana into his ribs, pushing through his intestines and then out the opposite side, all of that had… lost its meaning.
The disgusting, vile man was still human… and Yamamoto had felt like the monster, staring into his reflection showing in the scarlet pool of blood spreading across the floor as if desperate to drown him and the body. He had been the monster… because… in the reflection…
He had been the only one smiling.
… Y … A … G … O …
Yamamoto killed for the first time yesterday.
When he walked back into the Vongola HQ, there was blood splattered across his formerly pristine, signature black suit with the white undershirt. The red was splashed over one cheek and stained both of his palms like a telltale sign to his actions. Worst of all, the crimson had stained his eyes, their previous warm copper now demonic with their ruby glow. And that was so much more powerful than his hands being bloodied.
Seeing the scarlet in the other's eyes… was like knowing that the idiot's soul had been chipped at yet again, another shard of humanity flung to the side. It was another piece of Takeshi Yamamoto lost to the world of darkness, never to return.
The moment those reddened orbs met his jade gaze, Yamamoto was upon him. His head was beneath his jaw, his arms were tight around his waist, and he was quivering… shaking… begging…
"Please forgive me…" as if he had done something wrong. "Hayato! Please…" as if he was undeserving. "I'm sorry…" as if he was a terrible creature.
His katana slipped from his back as he held Gokudera in a rib-breaking embrace. Slick still, the blade slid from its sheath; it was cloaked red.
He didn't know what else to do.
So he pushed Yamamoto aside, cleaned his katana, and then handed it back to him.
He didn't say anything noble, like "He would have kept hurting others had you not killed him" or even something comforting such as "It will get better, I promise" – because, really, who could guarantee anything? Who could speak for the dead? Who could define someone's future without even knowing it?
Instead, he had handed the katana back to him, clapping it to Yamamoto's chest like a brand to his heart, and had stared him dead in the eye – those cursed red eyes that were a lost piece of his friend… his ally and partner… his lover. And he had said, with no soothing note in his voice, "If you can't handle it, then leave; if you can, then stay. But don't stand around here, regretting – especially when the Yamamoto I need never regrets a thing." He had been pulled into those strong, wiry arms; callused hands had wound around his back and held him tightly. "Can you be my Yamamoto?" he had whispered into the other's ear, "or are you going to regret and quit on me?"
And the answer had been, of course, a defiant 'no'.
Because Yamamoto loved him; loved him enough to die for him, kill for him, live for him… and, in their line of work where death is their temperamental neighbor and peace their unapproachable goal, to live was the hardest part.
In the morning, Takeshi was still with him. Six years later, he had yet to leave.
But one thing did depart… the scarlet glow.
Only a Yamamoto who regretted something… would let blood stain his soul.
And that was not his Yamamoto.