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."
