A/N: Alright, so, this is probably the first of many short drabbles. I'll stick them in when I feel like it. Since I usually only write enough for something to count as a drabble. Not like anyone's wondering, but I plan on rewriting that first chapter of my first fic. |D;
I also wouldn't mind some reviews on my drabbles either, they're always nice to hear, good or bad. C:

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own KHR or its characters.

The man shook, it was there again. All over his hands, it wouldn't go away. The overflowing feeling of guilt, something he wouldn't ever be able to escape. He can try and run from it, but he knows he can't.
Those countless lives, the ones he took. Whether they were bad people or not, he just couldn't take it. It was the business he was in, he knew he'd have to kill at some point, but he'd been trying his whole life to avoid it. But before the man knew it, he had become an expert assassin, the ace up the sleeve.

Yamamoto Takeshi.
At the age of 14, he was the baseball star of Namimori middle school. Loved by everyone, a total optimist, and rather stupid. Your average, popular jock. Partly into his first year, he meets Sawada Tsunayoshi, who really, causes him to change his previously ongoing path towards a being in the major league, as as baseball player.
At age 24, he's the Vongola family's Rain guardian. Successor to the Shigure Shouen Ryu style, serious, and has left the world of Baseball. A real Mafioso.

The guardian stood in his bathroom, washing his hands over and over again. That red, coppery fluid wouldn't wash off, no matter how hard he tried. It clung to his tanned skin, that deep crimson blood.
After a long while of useless scrubbing, it occurred to him that it would never go away, so he just shuts off the water. Teeth clenched, hands gripping to the sides of the sink, he was losing his mind. The breathing is heavy, and sounded like a pant. The ebony-haired man shut his eyes tightly, trying to make the blood on his hands go away. Concentrate. They crack open, but nothing has changed. His hands are stained.

Without a moment's notice, there's a knock on the door, and a familiar voice of the right hand man. An aggravated tone, of course. He flicks his head in the direction of the door, only for a second, then back at his hands. It's hasn't disappeared. His feet take him to the door, and he opens it with a smile.

"I'm perfectly fine."